My year in rep cinema couldn’t have had a brighter start. I began 2020 with a double-bill of Carole Lombard films on January 1st, beginning the BFI’s month-long celebration of the screwball queen, and I quickly followed that with an Elia Kazan retrospective that allowed me to fill in the few gaps I had in his filmography. Looking ahead at the year to come, I was excited for the BFI’s summer celebration of Japanese cinema – timed to coincide with the Tokyo Olympics – as well as a season of Bette Davis films and the long-promised Robert Altman retrospective. Beyond the BFI, I was looking forward to the PCC’s seasonally-themed 35m presentations of Éric Rohmer films, the ICA’s monthly screenings of prints from their archives, the Cinema Museum’s revelatory programming of obscure silent work, and the Ciné Lumière’s Sunday classics – add to that my annual trips to Bologna and Paris, and it seemed like I was all set for another feast of archive cinema.
Aside from my visit to Bologna for Il Cinema Ritrovato (which took place in a reduced format and two months later than usual) none of the above came to pass. The Coronavirus pandemic forced the closure of all cinemas in March, and although there have been brief windows of respite between lockdowns since then, we’re back under Tier 4 restrictions as I write this and the situation still looks very bleak. I had hoped that we could make something of a fresh start in 2021, but under the current restrictive conditions it seems likely that the cinemas will be closed well into January and beyond. This is despite the fact that the cinemas I’ve attended in the latter half of this year have frequently impressed me with their attempts to make their venues Covid-safe, and I’ve never felt concerned for my health while watching a film. It’s an environment where everyone is wearing a mask, maintaining distance, facing in the same direction and not talking – I’ve certainly felt safer inside a cinema than I have in a supermarket or on public transport this year.
There were calls this year for the government to keep gyms open as an essential service in the support of people’s mental health, but this year has underlined for me just how important the act of cinemagoing is for my emotional and mental wellbeing. Going to the cinema has been an almost daily ritual for me since I was a teenager, and having it suddenly taken away from me for months at a time has contributed to periods of depression and anxiety like I’ve never experienced before. I can and do watch films at home - often turning off my phone and watching in darkness - but they just don’t hit me and resonate like they do on the big screen. I too often feel antsy and distracted, I can't lose myself in a film in the same way. I need that all-encompassing darkness, I need the feeling of being along in a room full of strangers, I need the aesthetic bliss of film projection. I need cinema, and I know I’m far from alone in feeling a deep sense of loss right now. I hope all of the independent cinemas that play such an central role in my life can survive this pandemic and thrive on the other side of it, but the events of 2020 have proven that it is impossible to predict the future and futile to make plans.
Finally, the stats for this year. I saw 95 older films in cinemas in 2020. 71 of these were on 35mm, seven on 16mm and two on 70mm. By this time next year, hopefully those numbers will be significantly improved.
61 of the 95 rep screenings I attended were first time viewings, and these are the 40 standout discoveries I made this year.
40 – Roman Scandals (Frank Tuttle, 1933) – Jolly Cinema, Bologna, 35mm This bizarre pre-Code musical comedy is a vehicle for Eddie Cantor, who finds himself transported to Ancient Rome for some reason and spends the next eighty minutes delivering one-liners and singing the occasional song. It's basic stuff, but it's pretty funny and the lavish production certainly helps keep it watchable. The extravagant art direction and costume designs (although the women are barely clothed) are beautifully shown off by Gregg Toland's camera, and there's an impressive chariot race at the end that appears to owe a debt to Buster Keaton. There are also some Busby Berkeley-directed musical numbers to enjoy, although they’re not all enjoyable – one of them ends with a woman being kicked to her death, and another features Eddie in blackface. It's a weird movie.
39 – Metropolis (Rintaro, 2001) – Prince Charles Cinema, 35mm This is not an animated version of the 1927 film but an adaptation of a 1949 manga by Osamu Tezuka, who had apparently never seen Lang’s Metropolis and was inspired by nothing more than a poster for it. Rintaro's animated extravaganza is certainly a remarkable visual spectacle, and it was a quite a treat to experience it for the first time on a very nice 35mm print. There's a lot to appreciate in the imaginative and witty design of both the characters and their environment, and the use of colour is frequently sensational. I wish I could get more involved in the story, but I mostly found the plotting tiresome and it only gripped me in fits and starts. However, when the film is good it can be extremely arresting, and the use of "I Can't Stop Loving You" at the end is inspired.
38 – Champagne Charlie (Alberto Cavalcanti, 1944) – BFI Southbank, 35mm This Tommy Trinder vehicle is a tribute to 19th century music hall traditions, and the narrative is basically an excuse to string a number of songs together. These can get a bit wearying, but the film is elevated by Alberto Cavalcanti's smart direction and the impressive attention to period detail. The composition and blocking is frequently imaginative and elegant, and the portrait of the music hall life feels very authentic, with details like the seats facing away from the stage and looking into mirrors, or the depiction of behind-the-scenes stagecraft. The rivalry between Champagne Charlie and fellow music hall star The Great Vance (well played by Stanley Holloway) was inspired by real events, and it produces some funny sequences, like the tit-for-tat drinking songs or the duel. A number of good British character actors provide excellent support, notably Betty Warren, Jean Kent and Austin Trevor.
37 – Waiting for Happiness (Abderrahmane Sissako, 2002) - BFI Southbank, 35mm As a great admirer of Abderrahmane Sissako's Bamako and Timbuktu, I was excited to have the opportunity to finally see this earlier work from him. It feels a bit slight in comparison to those later films, and it took me a while to connect with its rhythm, as it drifted casually from one vignette to another without developing much of an overall shape. Gradually it drew me in, however, and I found much of it captivating. Sissako habitually creates great images and his use of colour and landscape here is incredibly vivid and imaginative. I think the film also became a lot more engaging whenever it shifted away from the rather dull protagonist Abdallah to focus on other characters, especially the electrician and his young apprentice. This relationship culminates in a sequence that I found breathtakingly beautiful and deeply moving. Sissako really is a marvellous director and I hope we see a new feature from him soon. It has been six years since Timbuktu.
36 – No Man of Her Own (Wesley Ruggles, 1932) – BFI Southbank, 35mm This pre-Code comedy about a small-town librarian marrying a New York conman on the flip of a coin is notable for being the only film Carole Lombard and Clark Gable ever made together. Funnily enough, they apparently didn't get along during the shoot – he thought she was too bawdy and a primadonna, while she thought he was conceited – and their romance didn't bloom until some years later. Whatever their personal feelings about each other, they have undeniable onscreen chemistry. There's a real erotic spark in some of their encounters, such as the brilliant library scene or their later cabin meeting. The cabin scene also features Lombard running around in her underwear, which prompted the permanently outraged Father Daniel Lord to complain to the Hays Office that he believed Hollywood producers must have stock in lingerie companies.
35 – Ossos (Pedro Costa, 1997) – ICA, 35mm This was the last film that Pedro Costa made on 35mm and in the Q&A that followed this screening he talked about it as a transitional point in his career. You can sense that as you watch the film. It feels like he's finding his way into this community, and learning how to collaborate them to create a new form of cinema. Ossos feels a bit uncertain in places – and it took me a full two reels to grasp the characters and relationships – but as I settled into it I found the experience increasingly compelling and affecting. It was shot by the great cinematographer Emmanuel Machuel, who creates some particularly evocative images in these cramped, underlit locations, and the influence of Bresson feels prominent in Costa's approach. Costa would go on to make richer, more accomplished films than this, but as a stepping-stone it's an impressive piece of work.
34 – Akira (Katsuhiro Otomo, 1988) – ICA, 35mm I've had a blu-ray of Akira sitting unopened on my shelf for many years but I had never sat down and watched it before this screening. I'm glad I waited to see it this way, as it's an extraordinarily vivid and exciting spectacle. It's full of bizarre and nightmarish images, and its portrait of post-apocalyptic Tokyo is compelling, especially emerging from a country that had experienced the bombing of Hiroshima and Nagasaki just forty years earlier. The film is more a collection of impressive bits than a coherent narrative, and as with my viewing of Metropolis this year, I had no real idea what was going on during the rather overextended finale, but it sure was an amazing thing to look at. Here's the craziest thing about this movie: it's set in 2019, and the ending takes place at Tokyo's Olympic stadium, which is being prepared for the following year's games.
33 – The Whipping Boss (J.P. McGowan, 1924) – Cinema Museum, 16mm The print of The Whipping Boss that we saw at the Cinema Museum – a 16mm copy taken from a decomposing nitrate print – is probably the only one in existence. It's a compelling piece of social realism, inspired by the true story of Martin Tarbert, a prisoner whipped to death in 1922, and it was a film aimed at raising awareness of the brutal treatment of prisoners used as slave labour. The film is largely uncompromising in its portrait of the harsh conditions and cruelty that these men suffered under (at one point, the boss pauses to coat his leather strap in sand before flogging an elderly convict), but the happy ending grafted onto the story rings particularly false as a result. A few bits of the film seem to be missing, and it does have some confusing storytelling, but I loved the way the nitrate decay went crazy when the two leads kissed at the end. It was Bill Morrison-esque!
32 – F.T.A. (Francine Parker, 1972) – Cinema Lumière, Bologna, Digital Having met Howard Levy – the Army doctor court-martialled for resisting the Vietnam war – on the set of Klute, Jane Fonda and Donald Sutherland recruited a number of musicians and comedians and spent much of 1971 touring U.S. military bases in the Pacific, putting on entertainment for the troops. In contrast to the kind of shows Bob Hope was performing, however, theirs was a political, satirical vaudeville show that reflected the rising anti-war sentiment among the military at the time – the title stands for Fuck The Army. The footage of their skits and songs that we see here is a bit hit-and-miss, but the film is far more interesting when Parker cuts in interviews that express the emotions of the young men and women engaged in the fight against their will. F.T.A. is particularly compelling when exploring the question of race; I saw it one day after watching the World War II propaganda piece The Negro Soldier, to which it acted as a striking counterpoint.
31 – Suture (Scott McGehee and David Siegel, 1993) – ICA, 35mm This film has a brilliant, instantly engrossing opening, and I loved its audacious premise, casting Dennis Haysbert and Michael Harris as brothers whom the world sees as identical, despite their completely different builds and the small fact that one actor is black and the other is white. The whole film is about identity and perception and it feels heavily indebted to a number of earlier films, such as Seconds, The Face of Another and The Wrong Man. After that cracking first 15-20 minutes I felt it started to lose a sense of momentum and energy, and it never really resolves its narrative or its ideas in a satisfying way. However, it is an intelligent and stylish piece of work that features a number of great moments. I was completely hooked by Haysbert's commanding and ambiguous presence in the lead role, and by Greg Gardiner's gleaming and imaginative black-and-white cinematography. I'm very glad I had the chance to discover it on a print.
30 – Smash-Up, the Story of a Woman (Stuart Heisler, 1947) – Jolly Cinema, Bologna, 35mm Susan Hayward gives a remarkable performance in this melodrama about a nightclub singer who puts her career on hold to support her husband, and soon begins hitting the bottle hard. Hayward is so good at detailing the various states of her character's drunkenness while trying to hold it together, and I liked the way her alcoholism developed; from a quick drink to soothe her social anxiety, to drinking to fill her suddenly empty days and dealing with her paranoia about her husband's fidelity. One shot of the looming shadow of a bottle recalls the expressionistic style of Powell and Pressburger’s The Small Back Room. This is an impressively tough and unsentimental portrait of alcoholism, and when Hayward does hit rock bottom, the manner in which she does so packs a punch.
29 – The Apaches of Athens (Dimitris Gaziadis, 1930) – Cinema Lumière, Bologna, Digital Thought lost for decades, this was the only Greek film that attempted to bridge the silent and sound eras by recording a synchronised soundtrack onto disc. It has been beautifully restored with the music and songs being re-recorded as per the original score. The film is a sweet romantic comedy that satirises the nouveau riche. The protagonist has a picture of Chaplin on his wall, and the spirit of Chaplin infuses the whole film, as this Little Tramp-like character falls for an heiress while being oblivious to the flower girl who adores him. The romantic narrative doesn't quite work, as the flower girl is forgotten about for a large chunk of the film, but the performances are charming and the film has some very amusing sequences. The Apaches of Athens is most essential as a document of its time, presenting us with some illuminating views of rural and city life in late-1920s Greece.
28 – The Good Bad-Man (Allan Dwan, 1916) – BFI Southbank, 35mm Douglas Fairbanks is the outlaw known only as Passin' Through, who steals from casinos and stores to give to disadvantaged and fatherless kids, in this excellent early western. The film runs for a shade over fifty minutes and the storytelling is tight and sophisticated, skilfully weaving in flashbacks to introduce Passin' Through's character and to reveal the details of his tragic past. His unresolved issues surrounding his absent father give this protagonist a strong psychological dimension, with his feeling of being rootless and illegitimate coming between him and Amy (the adorable Bessie Love). The film is beautifully directed by Dwan, who composes a number of memorable images – I loved the shot of Amy in the foreground watching Passin' Through disappear into the distance on his horse, or her stricken father stumbling on the porch as she is abducted by the villain of the piece.
27 – LSFF: Excerpts from Anne Charlotte Robinson's Five-Year Diary – Reel 22: A Short Affair (and) Going Crazy (1982, 27 min), Reel 23: A Breakdown and After the Mental Hospital (1983, 26 min), Reel 80: Emily Died (1994, 27 min), Reel 81: Mourning Emily (1995, 25 min) – ICA, Digital Anne Charlotte Robinson filmed her diary over the course of sixteen years. She ended up with more than 36 hours of footage across 83 reels, and the four reels we saw at this screening gave us a glimpse of her life towards both the beginning and end of that process. It's diary of her daily activities, but it's also a chronicle of her fragile mental health, her obsession with her fluctuating weight, her lack of money, and her fear of ending up childless and alone. These films are often painfully intimate to watch, notably when dealing with the devastating death of her three-year-old niece and her subsequent breakdown, but there are also lot of witty asides and self-deprecating gags in Robinson's commentary. In Reels 22 and 23, this slightly removed commentary competes with another narration, which is more raw, immediate and emotional, and all of these short films felt densely packed, with their sped-up, rapidly edited images and cluttered soundtracks. I found the experience fascinating, stimulating and quite exhausting, and I'm certainly keen to see more from this collection. It's clearly a singular artistic achievement.
26 – In Name Only (John Cromwell, 1939) – BFI Southbank, 35mm Looking at the cast list for In Name Only, I was expecting a comedy rather than the romantic melodrama it turned out to be, but fortunately it's a pretty good romantic melodrama. Cary Grant is the man attempting to escape his loveless marriage to build a new life with Carole Lombard, but his conniving and ruthless wife Kay Francis keeps getting in the way. The writing and direction is solid but the acting is first-rate across the board, with the three leads (and supporting players like Charles Coburn and Helen Vinson) all doing fine work. It's such a shame Grant and Lombard never had the chance to make a screwball together. They share some lovely moments in this film.
25 – The Narrow Trail (Lambert Hillyer and William S. Hart, 1917) – Cinema Museum, 16mm In his introduction to this screening, Kevin Brownlow noted William S. Hart's dedication to authenticity, and the film does feel impressively atmospheric, with particularly exciting location work and sharp editing. It kicks off with a terrific horse chase an boasts some dynamic action sequences, including a hell of a bar brawl. The performances from Hart and Sylvia Breamer - as two characters with shady pasts, finding redemption and each other - are strong. My favourite intertitle from the movie: "I don't mind your shootin', but be keerful of me hat!"
24 – Andy Warhol's Screen Tests - Reel #10 (Andy Warhol, 1964-1966) –Barbican, 16mm / Eat (Andy Warhol, 1963) + Restaurant (Andy Warhol, 1965) – Regent Street Cinema, 16mm This was a big year for Warhol fans, with Tate Modern’s exhibition opening in March (I fortunately managed to see it before it had to close a few days later) and these two screenings. The selection of his Screen Tests that we saw at the Barbican included well-known names like Edie Sedgwick, Lou Reed, Jonas Mekas and Paul Morrissey, alongside some less familiar subjects. I was particularly struck by Ethel Scull and Ann Buchanan, and it was a pleasure to see them all projected from 16mm. The Screen Tests screening was presented with a live score, which I found quite effective, but as the whirr and rattle of film running through a projector is one of my favourite sounds, having a 16mm projector positioned a few rows behind me as I watched Eat and Restaurant was an extremely pleasurable experience. That was the only noise I heard during Eat, in which a man slowly munches on mushrooms, occasionally pausing to look out the window or play with his cat. Restaurant does have a soundtrack, but I could only make out snatches of dialogue as Edie Sedgwick and her pals chatted around a table. To be honest, both films are a bit boring, but the experience of watching them was quietly entrancing.
23 – The Bingo Long Traveling All-Stars & Motor Kings (John Badham, 1976) – Cinema Museum, 35mm John Badham's debut feature is a very enjoyable period comedy about a group of baseball players attempting to seize the means of production and liberate themselves from the 'slavery' of the Negro League, striking out on their own as a barnstorming new team. The film touches on some interesting ideas about Marxist ideals and racial identity, but the filmmakers don't let anything get in the way of the generally amusing knockabout tone. That tone can veer pretty wildly over the course of the movie, but the strong and charismatic performances from Billy Dee Williams and James Earl Jones as the two leaders of the troupe keep the film grounded. Seen on a print that was in good condition but had faded quite badly, this is a film that could use some restoration and rediscovery.
22 – A Pig Across Paris (Claude Autant-Lara, 1956) – Piazza Maggiore, Bologna, Digital Although it was released in the US as Four Bags Full, A Pig Across Paris is a much better title for this pork-smuggling caper. Jean Gabin and Bourvil are a wonderful double-act trying to avoid cops, Nazis and dogs as they carry four cases of contraband meat across the city, and Gabin is on particularly grand form. His character is a canny opportunist, capable of talking (or yelling) his way out of any predicament and turning the situation to his advantage. It's a very funny picture that increasingly takes on a darker, more complicated shade, and it's superbly crafted, with beautiful noir-ish lighting and some inspired blocking.
21 – Swing High, Swing Low (Mitchell Leisen, 1937) – BFI Southbank, 35mm One of the common threads in the Carole Lombard season was her chemistry with her male co-stars, and how she often elevated their performances. She was a particularly good partner for Fred MacMurray, and I loved their first scene together here: she's on a ship going through the Panama Canal and he's standing on the wharf, and this is how they have their first bickering conversation, keeping their eyes locked as her boat lowers beneath him. Swing High, Swing Low a very witty and elegantly directed picture, but I wasn't expecting it to develop into a full-blown tragic melodrama in the second half, as MacMurray gets led astray in New York, destroying both his marriage and his career through his heavy drinking. It threatens to get a bit maudlin at times (and his behaviour doesn't seem to deserve her devotional support), but the two stars really sell it. MacMurray is particularly impressive with his performance growing as the film progresses, and his tremulous final performance is quite moving.
20 – Death Is a Caress (Edith Carlmar, 1949) – Barbican, 35mm Edith Carlmar directed ten features between 1949 and 1959, beginning with this fine noirish drama about a tempestuous love affair, and after watching her debut I'm very keen to see more. Her filmmaking is so impressive, particularly in a first feature. She directs with great imagination and style throughout, and the film is full of smart blocking, slick camerawork, unexpected transitions and imaginative montages. There are so many small details that really resonate, like the moment when Erik rips up his fiancée's note, and we see a scrap of paper bearing her name landing on the table. Claus Wiese and Bjørg Riiser-Larsen are both fine in the lead roles, but I was more taken by the characters who surround them, like Erik's wisecracking pal at the garage, or the gossiping ladies maintaining a running commentary on the state of Erik and Sonja's marriage – I loved the way we saw the shadows of the two neighbours watching as the police were called to a domestic dispute.
19 – Den Muso (Souleymane Cissé, 1975) – Cinema Arlecchino, Bologna, Digital Cissé's debut feature almost didn't exist after the lab screwed up the negative, and when he did release it the film was banned for years and the director ended up jail. Thankfully, we still have both him and the film, and now it has been restored it will hopefully be rediscovered as another vital work from this great director. Den Muso is the story of a young woman left pregnant after being raped, and Cissé indicts her family and the whole society around them for the callous manner in which she is abandoned. As in Baara, the director has a keen sense of class tensions and privilege, and this unflinching film steadily builds to a wrenching finale. Having witnessed Cissé's dismay at last year's festival when Baara screened in a sub-optimal print (which was still the best available) it was especially satisfying to see Den Muso looking so sharp in this restoration.
18 – Cinderella (Nadezhda Kosheverova and Mikhail Shapiro, 1947) – Cinema Jolly, Bologna, 35mm This Russian take on the fairy tale is certainly one of my most delightful discoveries of the year. The film is presented with irresistible wit and imagination from the off. Kosheverova and Shapiro direct with the lightest of touches, and they utilise special effects that feel genuinely magical – the transformation scenes are particularly charming. They just about get away with casting 37-year-old Yanina Zhejmo as the 16-year-old protagonist, but the film is comfortably stolen by Erast Garin as the capricious King who keeps threatening to resign. This film was also released in colour, and I'd love to see one of those prints some day, but this black-and-white version was just lovely.
17 – Lovely Rita (Jessica Hausner, 2001) – BFI Southbank, 35mm. The clinical, elliptical style building to a shocking act of violence recalls early Haneke, but Hausner mixes up her approach with welcome flashes of warmth and humour, and some dynamic camerawork. I particularly loved the crash zooms that frequently disrupt her striking compositions. Barbara Osika has a compelling sullen quality as the complicated young protagonist, remaining intriguing yet unreadable as her behaviour grows more disturbing and extreme (what a shame she never acted again). The performances are largely deadpan and unaffected, although Hausner gets plenty of comic mileage out of an awkward school production of An Inspector Calls. I think this debut feature is still Hausner's best film; in fact, having now seen all of her work I've liked each film a little less than the one that preceded it.
16 – Western Deep (Steve McQueen, 2002) – Tate Modern, Digital What a year it has been for Steve McQueen, who ended 2020 with Small Axe and began it with a superb retrospective of his video work at Tate Modern. I admired so many of the pieces in this exhibition, particularly 7th Nov, in which a man narrates the tragic event that has defined his life over a single still image; Ashes, a beautiful piece in which a young man's life and death are placed side-by-side; and I loved the vibrant energy and intimacy of Girls, Tricky. But the one film that really stunned me was McQueen's staggering 2002 short Western Deep. This descent into the darkness and din of a South African gold mine is incredibly intense, and the grainy Super 8mm footage accentuates the hellish atmosphere. It’s an incredible sensory experience; claustrophobic and riveting.
15 – Kohlhiesel’s Daughters (Ernst Lubitsch, 1920) – Teatro Comunale, Bologna, 35mm I'm usually an easy mark for any movie in which an actor plays twins or doppelgängers, and I loved Henny Porten's dual performance in this highly entertaining comedy as two very different sisters. Gretel is sweet and refined, while Liesel is aggressive and uncouth, and Porten creates two distinctive individuals through her physicality and expressiveness. Emil Jannings gives a typically boisterous performance as the man who plots to marry the less desirable sister in order to get to his favoured one. Lubitsch sets up lots of great physical and visual gags, and he keeps the energy bouncing until the plot is wrapped up rather abruptly at the end. Great fun.
14 – Gavroš (Tat’jana Lukaševič, 1937) – Jolly Cinema, Bologna, 35mm This very loose adaptation of Hugo's Les Misérables focuses on the street urchin Gavroche, played with endearing energy and charisma by Kolja Smorčkov. Although it is set in Paris in 1832, the film has been crafted with a distinctly Soviet style and spirit, with the workers taking on the bourgeoisie and being shot from heroic angles. Lukaševič has a punchy and dynamic filmmaking style. She gets excellent performances from her cast (particularly the kids), and she really exploits some beautiful production design. If anything, I could have done with Gavroš being significantly longer than 70 minutes, as it occasionally barrels through events and characters without giving you much chance to grasp them, but that's minor complaint considering how involved I was in it by the end.
13 – Hostages (Frank Tuttle, 1943) – Jolly Cinema, Bologna, 35mm André De Toth's outstanding None Shall Escape was one of my favourite discoveries in 2018, and a couple of years before writing that film, Lester Cole wrote the screenplay for this similarly compelling WWII thriller. It's a film about resistance and collaboration, following a group of underground resistance fighters in Nazi-occupied Prague, and the film contrasts the characters driven by their own self-interest with those willing to sacrifice themselves for the greater good. Hostages is the best-directed Frank Tuttle film I’ve seen so far, with a number of fine set-pieces building to a and a superb climactic sequence. The cast is strong, particularly William Bendix as the underground leader pretending to be a slow-witted washroom attendant, but it’s probably most notable as being Luise Rainer's last film role for decades.
12 – Variety Lights (Federico Fellini and Alberto Lattuada, 1950) – BFI Southbank, 35mm Before his solo debut The White Sheik, Fellini co-directed this backstage comedy about an impresario losing his heart, head and wallet to an ambitious showgirl. It's a wonderfully high-spirited film, full of great gags and hilarious ensemble work, with a particularly fine work from Giulietta Masina and the breathtakingly gorgeous Carla Del Poggio. The film doesn't feel particularly Fellini-esque in comparison to the work that would follow – and apparently it was so poorly received in 1950 it bankrupted Fellini and Lattuada's company – but I found it to be a delightful discovery, and one of the director's most straightforwardly entertaining films.
11 – The Arrangement (Elia Kazan, 1969) – BFI Southbank, 35mm / The Visitors (Elia Kazan, 1972) – BFI Southbank, 35mm The Arrangement is the indulgent folly that almost killed Elia Kazan's career. Adapting his own novel, Kazan goes for stylistic overload, employing a lot of New Hollywood trickery in his camerawork and editing, and the result is an occasionally striking but more often bloated and confounding picture. Kazan's script is all over the place – it's part midlife crisis movie, part immigrant tale, part advertising satire – and the film is constantly see-sawing between tedium and hysteria. Douglas chews the scenery, Dunaway looks coolly beautiful, and Deborah Kerr looks desperately out of place. Filmed in his own house with a tiny cast and crew, The Visitors was Kazan's response to the critical and box office failure of the prior film– he claimed that it was made for the same amount that Dunaway's agent had made from The Arrangement. With its themes of home invasion, emasculation and rape, it's strongly reminiscent of Straw Dogs, which came out one year earlier. Kazan's film develops a nice slow-burning tension, but at a certain point it just fizzles out. I think both The Arrangement and The Visitors are failures, but watching them back-to-back was a fascinating experience; the work of a once-great director now flailing in a new age.
10 – Love Letter (Kinuyo Tanaka, 1953) – Barbican, 35mm One of my greatest discoveries in recent years was Kinuyo Tanaka's masterpiece The Eternal Breasts. Two years earlier, she began her directorial career with Love Letter, and while it doesn't quite hit the heights of the later film, it's an incredibly accomplished debut. Her keen eye for composition and her expressive use of light and locations is immediately apparent, as is her skill at drawing great work from all of her actors. Written by Keisuke Kinoshita, the film is a fine melodrama, but it is perhaps even more compelling as a portrait of postwar Japan and how the pervasive influence of American occupation affected its inhabitants. The characters in Love Letter are damaged and disillusioned, having been forced to make choices and compromises that now haunt them, and although the film appears to be edging towards a happy ending, Tanaka and Kinoshita leave things unresolved in a way that's much more poignant.
9 – Buba + Užmuri (Nutsa Gogoberidze, 1930/1934) – Jolly Cinema, Bologna, Digital It was a privilege to see these films, especially as we are the only audience outside Georgia that has ever seen them. Buba is a remarkable documentary with dramatic elements that looks at villagers living in a remote mountain region, where they have preserved "a middle ages way of life." Gogoberidze captures their toil and hardship, but also the rituals and sense of community that binds them together. The footage is absolutely breathtaking. Her fiction film Užmuri may well be a masterpiece too, but the English subtitles malfunctioned at this screening and we had to watch without any sense of what the intertitles should say, which made it tricky to get a firm grasp of the narrative. The fact that I sat there and was riveted anyway is a testament to the film's aesthetic achievement. Gogoberidze uses close-ups and bold compositions to stunning effect, and she pulls off some amazing sequences. As a purely visual experience, it's as good as anything I've seen this year.
8 – Storm Warning (Stuart Heisler, 1951) – Jolly Cinema, Bologna, 35mm The most bizarre thing about Storm Warning is the fact that it's a film about the Ku Klux Klan that never once touches on their racist beliefs. According to this film, the KKK is nothing more than a money-making racket, which reacts violently to any 'outsiders' sticking their nose in. A few black faces are briefly glimpsed in crowd scenes, but otherwise the topic is carefully avoided. That weird omission aside, it's an intense thriller with a tight screenplay and atmospheric direction. I loved the way the unnerving opening sequence was shot, and throughout the film Heisler and cinematographer Carl Guthrie evoke a potent sense of small-town intimidation. Even if it avoids the race question, the film goes to some dark and powerful places in its second half, with all of the actors doing sterling work. Ginger Rogers getting whipped in front of a burning cross is something I never imagined I'd see.
7 – Ten Dark Women (Kon Ichikawa, 1961) – ICA, 35mm A wonderfully cynical satire about ten women who unite to plot the death of the TV producer having affairs with all of them simultaneously. Natto Wada's screenplay is sharp and funny, and she throws in a couple of neat twists - including a particularly clever use of a ghost – but there isn't quite enough here to carry it over the finish line, and the final act is a little flat. So much of the film is tremendous, though. I loved the use of stark and expressive shadows in the arresting opening sequence, and in fact the entire movie looks sensational, with brilliant widescreen framing and frequently ingenious blocking. Ten Dark Women might be one of Kon Ichikawa's lesser-known films, but it's a fascinating and very entertaining oddity from this great director.
6 – Burden of Love (Yuzo Kawashima, 1955) – Jolly Cinema, Bologna, 35mm While watching a number of Yuzo Kawashima films for the first time in Bologna this summer, I was fascinated by the way he approaches social issues in his work. My favorite of these, Burden of Love, is a brisk, eccentric mainstream comedy, but it's impressively frank in the way it deals with questions of pre-marital sex, abortion and prostitution. The film is focused on Japan's postwar birth rates, with Health Minister Araki being tasked to find ways to control the booming population, only to find several unexpected pregnancies occurring within his own family. This premise perfectly complements Kawashima's gift for character and his ability to switch viewpoints on the fly. The film is very funny from the first scene to the last, but it's also tender and poignant, with the interactions between the various family members feeling very authentic.
5 – Tam na horách (Sidney M. Goldin, 1920) – Teatro Comunale, Bologna, 35mm This was among the first major Czech feature films and it's an extremely impressive piece of work. A young woman is exiled from her mountain village after giving birth to a bastard son. She finds peace in the forest and unexpected fame in the city, before her past comes back to haunt her. Goldin's storytelling is sophisticated, with flashbacks and fantasy sequences being brilliantly integrated into the film, and it's visually superb, using light and framing in dramatically potent ways; I loved the shot of Maruska's face at the window illuminated by lightning flashes. This screening, in the marvellous Teatro Comunale, was particularly special with Eduardo Raon providing wonderful accompaniment on the harp, and the film was preceded by Peter Hutton's entrancing Study of a River on 16mm.
4 – Les Choses de la vie (Claude Sautet, 1970) – Ciné Lumière, 35mm In the aftermath of a terrible car crash, moments from a man's life flash before his eyes. We see his loves, his choices and his regrets as his life ends at a literal and figurative crossroads. Sautet pulls off some sublime transitions as he moves between past and present, and his use of the camera is beautiful; I loved the quick zoom in on Romy Schneider when she first locks eyes with Michel Piccoli, or the way he creates a sense of foreboding by pulling back as he builds up to the crash, which is brilliantly and terrifyingly staged. The film captures the fleeting nature of time and the fragility of life in a way I found profoundly moving, and it approaches the subjective experience of death in an imaginative and haunting manner. A few weeks after watching Les Choses de la vie I saw the disastrous American remake Intersection, which gave me an even greater respect for the delicate and incisive way Sautet handled this material.
3 – Torn Boots (Margarita Barskaja, 1933) – Cinema Jolly, Bologna, 35mm / Father and Son (Margarita Barskaja, 1936) – Cinema Jolly, Bologna, 35mm Margarita Barskaja built her films around children, using low angles to make us share their perspective, and through improvisatory methods that were controversial at the time, she drew incredibly natural performances from them. Torn Boots depicts the workers' struggle as seen through the eyes of the young, following children of various ages as they move from charming playground games to being radicalised in support of their fathers’ strike action. I had no idea where this film was heading, and when it reached its destination I was deeply moved. The images recall Vigo, the editing Eisenstein. Father and Son’s exploration of strained familial relationships is extremely nuanced and affecting, even if its sense of authenticity riled the Soviet authorities for providing a grim view of Russian life. Barskaja was clearly a brilliant filmmaker and should have had a great career, but Father and Son was quickly withdrawn from circulation and she died a few years later in the gulag. A tragedy.
2 – Chess of the Wind (Mohammad Reza Aslani, 1976) – Cinema Arlecchino, Digital After a disastrous premiere screening, which was apparently sabotaged following a conflict between Aslani and the festival curator, Chess of the Wind was subsequently banned following the Islamic Revolution and remained out of sight for decades. Now it has been brilliantly restored (after the negatives were found in an antique shop), this screening in Bologna was essentially its world premiere, and it proved to be one of the year's greatest revelations. A mysterious chamber piece about greed, betrayal and superstition, it's directed with a mesmerising precision, as the camera creeps around the this ghostly house like an intruder. The lighting is exquisite and Aslani pulls off some remarkable sequences, notably a murder halfway through the film and the final shocking reveal. I loved the occasional cutaways to the washer women who act as a Greek chorus too. Chess of the Wind is clearly an essential film in the history of Iranian cinema, and one that fully deserves its second chance at finding an audience.
1 – As I Was Moving Ahead Occasionally I Saw Brief Glimpses of Beauty (Jonas Mekas, 2000) – Close-Up, 16mm Having been blown away by the experience of seeing Walden and Lost, Lost, Lost projected from 16mm at Close-Up in 2016, there was no way I was going to miss a screening of this epic diary film by Jonas Mekas. It exceeded my sky-high expectations. Mekas continually tells us that nothing happens in his film (he calls it "a sort of masterpiece of nothing") but it's so full of life and incident; a fragmented collection of the banal, insignificant moments that form lasting memories. Mekas seems to be enraptured by everything that he captures with his camera, finding ecstasy in everyday occurrences like watching his children play or a lazy Sunday in the park. It's astonishingly beautiful, playful, funny and moving, and although the screening ran for five hours – with just a brief interval for changing reels - I was completely enraptured by it. Mekas's films are made in such a rough, casual and unpretentious manner, but the priceless moments they capture and the feelings they evoke makes them overwhelming. This was a cinema experience that I'll always cherish.
Diao Yinan delivers on the promise of his 2014 film Black Coal, Thin Ice with this dazzling thriller. Set in rainy nocturnal Wuhan, lit primarily by streetlamps and neon signs, The Wild Goose Lake is a sleek neo-noir with a sly sense of humour. The plot – which is kickstarted by a spectacular brawl and an even more spectacular decapitation – is perhaps overly convoluted, but this is more of an exercise in style and an attempt to toy with genre conventions, and on those fronts it exceeds thrillingly. Almost every scene in this film is an aesthetic wonder; Yinan stages elaborate long takes, high-speed chase sequences and artful static compositions with equal confidence and flair. He also makes brilliant uses of unexpected props – an umbrella, a prosthetic leg, a pair of light-up trainers. I’m keen to check out the films Diao Yinan made before breaking through with Black Coal, Thin Ice, and I can’t wait to see what he does next.
There’s an real sense of tenderness at the heart of Kelly Reichardt’s films, even if she is making a film about harsh times and unforgiving environments. In First Cow, Reichardt (reunited with her great collaborator John Raymond) is telling a story of pioneers in 19th-century Oregon, but as in her masterpiece Meek’s Cutoff, she subverts our expectations and avoids any clichés. This is a film about a friendship between two gentle men (wonderfully played by Orion Lee and John Magaro) and the business they create together, which gradually takes them into dangerous territory. A prologue gives us a vague sense of where this story will lead us, but even then Reichardt manages to surprise with the way she reveals her perfect final shot. She has an impeccable command of tone, aided by Christopher Blauvelt’s painterly use of light, and the measured pace she establishes through her nimble editing lulls the viewer deeply into this story. 
Following his recent studies of disparate communities In Jackson Heights and Monrovia, Indiana, Frederick Wiseman’s City Hall shows us how such a community might and perhaps should be governed. Returning to his native Boston for his 45th feature, Wiseman splits his time between meetings at the Mayor’s office, public events, community outreach meetings and street-level encounters, cutting fluidly between them and, over the course of four-and-a-half hours, creating a multi-dimensional view of a city. Wiseman’s films are big-picture portraits carefully constructed through a series of individual vignettes, and there are some fascinating and poignant standalone scenes here: an emotionally charged Veterans Day meeting; Mayor Marty Walsh addressing his elderly residents' healthcare concerns; a pest control visit to a lonely man’s rat-infested apartment; and perhaps most unexpected of all, a riveting scene of garbage collection. The business of city governance can be slow and difficult, but Wiseman’s clear-eyed depiction of it is completely engrossing, and in the end quite hopeful.
Don Hertzfeldt’s stick figures remain as minimal in their design as ever, but the world he builds around them continue to grow in complexity. Not only does World of Tomorrow Part 3 add new layers of colour and richness to Hertzfeldt’s visual palette, but the story he tells folds in on itself, intertwining with the first two episodes in surprising and ingenious ways. There are some fantastic gags here, such as the pop-up advertising or the constant ‘memory full’ warnings, but as the shape of the narrative begins to reveal itself it becomes a profound and moving meditation on time, memory, love and regret. Hertzfeldt’s latest extraordinary short has more ideas and imagination packed into its 34 minutes than any feature-length film released this year, and his World of Tomorrow series stands as a singular achievement.
