Showbiz has no mercy. After turning fifty, not even a cabinet full of awards, a spot on the Hollywood Walk of Fame, or additional plastic surgeries can help. The body is no longer the same, with wrinkles here and there that Botox can’t cover. They might be invisible from a distance, but they are all too noticeable in close-ups. The owner of the TV station (Dennis Quaid) has no doubt that Elisabeth Sparkle’s (Demi Moore) time has passed. The ratings for her morning fitness show are starting to decline. The charm of the sex symbol has faded, and the star is no longer able to maintain her audience, let alone attract new viewers. Termination, a cordial thank you for twenty years of collaboration, and a firm “goodbye, don’t ever come back.”

“The Substance” by Coralie Fargeat might be a reflection on aging, passing, generational change, and the ruthlessness of the entertainment industry. However, it is certainly a wild body horror film that makes no aesthetic compromises, focusing on bloody physical transformations, fully conveying the pain of falling nails or skin piercing during suturing. These are the most common examples. On the other end of the spectrum, we find bodily evolutions reminiscent of Cronenberg’s “The Fly” or the bloody birth of xenomorph babies. You name it, it’s there.

The plot concept of “The Substance” is truly compelling and thoroughly executed. What’s it about? The titular substance enables duplication and the creation of a second, better version of oneself: younger and more attractive. Thus, the new version of Elisabeth becomes the alluring Sue (Margaret Qualley). Wonderful, although there are a few major problematic hooks. The fundamental one is that both entities constitute a single organism. There is no “me” and “her,” but always entirely “YOU.” This principle causes very serious, mutual complications. The second obstacle is the necessity for weekly changes. Every seven days, one organism enters a dormant state, connected to an IV drip, so the other can enjoy life, no matter how miserable it might be.

That’s enough. “The Substance” is a spoiler minefield. The less you know about Fargeat’s film, the more you’ll get out of it. The fewer stills you see, the more shocking it can be. Knowing fewer descriptions, you’ll feel disgust and repulsion even more naturally. “The Substance” intertwines awkward and significant philosophical issues, questioning the value and importance of human life, wondering to what extent we can be objectified and whether we ourselves derive pleasure from it. Fargeat’s film is also an exaggerated depiction of the media world, the cult of beauty, and the doomed clash between ethics and aesthetics.

Coralie Fargeat loves the flash of cameras, the tacky set design of TV shows. Whether it’s a studio or a boss’s office, you’ll find the right amount of glitter, pink, purple, and red as the dominant colors. The artificiality of the world depicted in “The Substance” might remind one of Barbieland in Greta Gerwig’s film, but while the pursuit of being an ideal, flawless Barbie led to comedic realms, in Fargeat’s work, they herald a nightmare.

“The Substance” reaches its peak in the first two acts when the symbiosis between Elisabeth and Sue turns into jealousy. When the planned course of action develops cracks (but not yet breaks), when mutual interests transform into an irreconcilable conflict of needs, and jealousy and revenge become the leading emotions. This can lead to nothing other than a bloody finale and a sharp genre shift, situated somewhere between shameless bravado, pastiche, and gore-driven directorial excess. Coralie Fargeat either went too far or ascended to an artistic Olympus. Either way, she definitely won in both cases.

One of the producers and screenwriters of “Twilight of the Gods”, available on Netflix, is Eric Carrasco, who also co-created “Foundation”. He is joined by David Hartman (known for “Ark: The Animated Series”) and Jay Oliva (who collaborated on “Thor: Ragnarok”). I won’t even mention Zack Snyder, because his involvement is a “quality” guarantee. So, one can expect a good, though potentially controversial, story. It’s almost a shame it’s an animated series, because if it were made into a live-action film with the same scale and brutality, it would certainly become a legendary title in the fantasy genre. It would be talked about for years. Still, I won’t complain too much about “Twilight of the Gods” being animated, because despite its “stop-motion” flaws, it carries an above-average artistic finesse that is captivating. My only minor criticism might be that yet again, another recent production delves into Norse mythology. It’s becoming a bit dull, and it feels like an easy way out, instead of exploring new directions in folklore.

I mentioned a live-action version not only in the context of the visual style and storyline of “Twilight of the Gods”, but also because of the voice cast. It includes actors such as Pilou Asbæk, Sylvia Hoeks, Jessica Henwick, John Noble, Peter Stormare, and Stuart Martin. While they may not be the biggest stars, these are actors who have already created vivid and masterfully performed characters in their filmographies. Seeing them on the big screen in a live-action version of the animation would undoubtedly be a powerful experience. But for now, we only have their voices. Oh well. We’ll just have to deal with that. I previously mentioned that modern cinema lacks fantasy like “Twilight of the Gods”, because it’s fantasy without restraint. The series fully exploits the flexibility of animated storytelling, openly presenting sex and violence, which makes the plot feel natural. The problem is that Zack Snyder is among the creators—both a blessing and a curse—so “Snyderism” has affected the series as well. And it manifests in the usual way: slow motion. Yes, that’s right, even in animation, Snyder had to include it. The series generally tells the story of a troubled land inhabited by northern peoples in the time before Ragnarök. In the very first episode, we meet the main characters, Sigrid and Leif, who will become key players in the fight against the evil gods. Sigrid saves Leif from certain death, but of course, she does so in slow motion. Snyder’s touch is evident from the very first scene, so this style of narration may not appeal to everyone. However, the “Rebel Moon” director isn’t as overbearing with his signature pathos here as he often is in his live-action productions. So, if you see Zack Snyder’s name in the opening credits as the director, don’t run away from the screen. Yes, Snyderism is present, but only in the right dose to build a fantasy atmosphere appropriate for an 18+ audience.

In that regard, for today’s cinema, it’s intense. The language used by the characters is flowery, the camera isn’t shy about showing blood, or even male genitalia, which almost never happens in movies. However, all these elements are carefully planned and integrated into a very abstract and philosophical narrative, which they don’t hinder but rather enhance, adding emotional weight. The gods in this story aren’t good, even when they sometimes appear to be. This isn’t entirely due to their will, but mostly their nature. The message of the series is to define “divinity” as something so far removed from humanity that, from their lofty position as creators and destroyers of worlds, no human will ever find support in the gods. And the gods will never understand humans, though that won’t stop them from tormenting and using them for their own purposes. So, what’s to be done? The gods must be overthrown. It’s a bold idea, but in Norse mythology, it turns out to be achievable. So, over the course of the episodes, viewers can follow how Sigrid and Leif try to exact their revenge on the gods, using one’s power against another.

If you’ve ever been interested in the “fate of the gods,” i.e., Ragnarök, you’ll quickly notice that “Twilight of the Gods” has little to do with original Norse sources like the “Poetic Edda”, specifically the “Völuspá” poem. It’s worth remembering that this poem doesn’t contain a purely Norse message, as it was culturally filtered due to the Christianization of Iceland and Norway in the 10th and 11th centuries. Similarly, the show’s message is also filtered through a thousand years of human thought. That’s why Snyder and his team had to work hard to transform all these alliterative Norse poems into a story that’s exciting, deep, and, most importantly, educational enough to meet viewers’ expectations. And those expectations, especially for this type of animation, are broad—from brutality to erotica to philosophical depth. Ideally, everything should be combined to break the misconception that fantasy is just for children, a belief still common among many viewers and critics. “Twilight of the Gods” requires an open mind toward animation, which might be less engaging for some viewers than live-action, but the series is worth watching, if only for the mad Thor who murders innocent children.

The Devil’s Advocate. Kevin Lomax and John Milton

Can the devil harm someone who doesn’t believe in him? What form can he take in an age when his grotesque image as a horned demon with a tail, so well-established over the years, is only laughable? Can the eerie prince of darkness, the fallen angel locked in an eternal battle with God over human souls, the oldest of rebels, evil incarnate with a thousand names and faces, still instill fear and enslave? And what exactly lies behind the enigmatic concept of “free will”? Gallons of ink and reams of paper weighing several tons have been used in endless debates on the mystery of free will, God’s intervention in human life, and the symbolic struggle between good and evil on all levels. The topic is tricky—dangerous even. Every person has an opinion, raising the question of whether it’s possible to find a rational answer, at least in this world. Yet it’s also a timeless theme and an inexhaustible source of inspiration. The Devil’s Advocate it is.

This time, Taylor Hackford presents his take. Here is his protagonist. Many of us can identify with him, and some may even envy him. Kevin Lomax is a young and devilishly (pun intended) talented lawyer. It’s easy to believe, seeing him in action. He almost dances in front of the jury, striking proud poses, dramatically throwing down pieces of evidence, and indignantly accusing a tearful girl who dared to accuse his client (her teacher) of sexual abuse. We also see that client: small, pudgy, with a vile look and lecherous smile. The girl’s embarrassment and humiliated testimony seem to excite him. His guilt is obvious, and a guilty verdict seems inevitable. And yet… Lomax managed to wipe the look of sympathy off the jury’s faces, casting doubt on the weeping, wronged victim. He won.

Someone might say he’s just good at his job, that he’s merely doing what a lawyer does, and everyone deserves a defense. But it’s hard to shake the feeling that something is off. Lomax is proud of himself, intoxicated by his own success. A brief moment of self-doubt, when he gazes at himself in horror, marks a crossroads. He removes his wedding ring, a symbolic gesture whose significance will become clear later. He could abandon the case, follow his suddenly awakened conscience… But he returns to the courtroom and wins. With this turn of events, it’s no surprise that a powerful New York law firm, a legal giant, wants Lomax to join their ranks. Kevin is happy. Happy, despite his mother’s warnings and worries. Happy, even though he neglects the needs and ambitions of his wife, who longs for a child above all else. Only his mother sees the ominous shadow looming over Lomax’s life, but she is too fearful, too quiet, and too weighed down by her own demons to protect her son.

Kevin decides to accept the offer, setting out on what he believes is his conquest of the world. Does he feel any premonition of something wrong? No. Not yet. His voice is clear, his movements animated. Enthusiasm radiates from him. Enter John Milton. Lomax’s boss, the owner of the firm. A man who seems to wield absolute power and is dangerously captivating. When he speaks in his raspy voice, everyone falls silent with respect. When he pauses, his deep, piercing gaze seems to see right through his listener. He is cordial, but his warmth feels wild, as if it could turn into venomous hostility in an instant. Milton’s overwhelming charm seems to have no discernible source. It’s hard to pinpoint whether it lies in his unshakable self-confidence or in his power, which appears limitless. Milton, standing atop his skyscraper with the city skyline at his feet, seems to have the whole world under his control. And the world listens. Attentively. His influence reaches everywhere, and his resources are unimaginable. He has his clients in his grip; he knows everything about them.

Where there is great power and great wealth, there is great corruption. But Kevin isn’t aware of that yet. Milton slowly ensnares him with great skill. He knows exactly how to handle him, expertly toying with his free will. Above Lomax’s head, the greatest forces clash, and the world spins faster than he can perceive. In the face of eternity, his days are but a blink of an eye. We see the colors and elements swirl around him, while he continues to look straight ahead. That’s why he misses the drama unfolding in his wife’s life. He ignores the fears that flash before her eyes, taking on terrifying forms like something out of a nightmare. He fails to grasp the overwhelming, hopeless loneliness that has consumed her. In the end, he makes a mistake, one cautioned against by a wise Chinese proverb: Be careful what you wish for. He forsakes the woman who trusts him, love, and family—for the case he’s working on. He does so of his own free will. He makes the final decision. In fact, he had already made it earlier, symbolized by removing his wedding ring during the recess of the sexual abuse trial. If he returns to the courtroom and wins, he will lose everything he once loved and believed in.

Talk to people. Don’t be someone nobody ever talks to this much. Because then you might be tempted to trust the first person who does. Especially if that person knows how to talk. Knows how to imbue even the simplest gesture with erotic meaning. Knows how to possess. To deceive. To destroy. Behold, I send you out as sheep among wolves…

Terrified, trembling, broken, Kevin—who has just watched his wife slit her throat with her final words, “I love you”—learns the truth. John Milton is Satan. John Milton is his father.

Call me Dad…

On an eerily deserted Manhattan, the final act of a bloody tragedy, one Kevin—like Macbeth—brought upon himself, begins. It’s empty and absolutely silent, as if time and space no longer matter—no longer exist.

Once again, John Milton gazes mockingly into the eyes of his highest adversary. He has visited Him in His sacred abode and challenged Him.

The Final Showdown Between Father And Son

Where is God? Now, Kevin needs Him more than ever. He looks for Him and calls out to Him, because here, in the quiet of Milton’s office, he stands at the gates of hell. Milton is in his element. With his red-haired daughter—the new incarnation of Bulgakov’s Hella, the embodiment of Kevin’s erotic desires—by his side, Milton lays out intoxicating visions. He promises endless pleasure. What we call the Apocalypse would become a string of successes for Kevin. If only he gives Milton what he desires most—a family. When asked about God, Milton laughs. His fiery monologue would make even Hamlet proud. God is a prankster, he says, claiming that if anyone loves humanity, it’s him—the one with so many names. He is man’s biggest fan!

What can save Kevin? God is far away. Pleasure is close. Just within reach. And then, the wedding ring he had once recklessly removed becomes a source of strength for him. He is still free. He can still choose for himself. Free will!

It’s time. Free will, right?

The Final Victory?

Kevin Lomax, a young and talented lawyer, defends a teacher accused of sexual abuse. He now knows his client is guilty. He knows he can no longer defend him. He makes the decision and resigns from the case. He returns to the courtroom, where his supportive wife smiles at him…

Is This The End?

To which doors in the human heart can the devil still knock in these unbearably rationalized times? Can he still have any influence?

“Second-tier pop culture? The only hero no one would want to become? A knockoff of the Toxic Avenger?” The story of the Swamp Thing is incredibly colorful, and its cinematic adaptation carries the label of a B-movie, though it was directed by none other than the maestro himself, Wes Craven.

For those less familiar with the intricacies of the DC Comics universe(s) — Swamp Thing is not some quirky character from humorous episodes. His fate has often intertwined with the Justice League and John Constantine, with whom he co-founded “Justice League Dark”, and new comics featuring this character are still being published to this day (an updated version of the 1980s series was released in Poland on April 18).

Swamp Thing debuted in 1971 in “The House of Secrets”. A year later, he got his own title, and in the very first issue — as is usually the case — his nemesis, Doctor Arcane, was introduced. The mad scientist also appeared in the film, portrayed by Louis Jourdan, just before taking on his most famous role as the villain in “Octopussy”, a James Bond film. The first series of comics lasted only five years, as there clearly wasn’t a solid vision for it (in the last battle, Swamp Thing fought in human form — who would want to watch that?!), and everything indicated that Alec Holland and his alter ego would share the same fate as Ultra-Man, the Puzzler, Quakemaster, and other failed DC experiments.

Wes Craven (already recognized for “The Last House on the Left” and “The Hills Have Eyes”) brought Swamp Thing back into the spotlight. The moderate success of the film adaptation encouraged the publisher to revive this fascinating embodiment of nature’s forces. What’s more, Swamp Thing was then written by Alan Moore, the renowned creator of “V for Vendetta”, “Watchmen”, and “The Killing Joke” — one of the most popular stories featuring Batman and the Joker. It was under Moore’s pen that the Swamp Thing’s tale gained a darker tone, incorporating philosophical themes about human nature and our relationship with the planet we so readily destroy.

You won’t find this depth in the movie, which has a much lighter tone. But despite its modest budget of just two and a half million dollars, it didn’t receive the overwhelmingly negative reception one might expect from its apparent cheapness. Roger Ebert, one of America’s most respected critics, wrote of the film, “There is beauty in this film if you know where to look,” and awarded it three out of four stars. So, where should you look?

Every movie — regardless of budget, genre, or release date — touches on one of two themes (and, in the best cases, both): love and death. The presence of at least one (whether as an event, threat, or expectation) is the foundation of all non-abstract scripts, but in low-budget, genre films, the viewer is often confronted with shallow emotions serving purely as entertainment. Love is romantic or physical, and death doesn’t depress; more often, it amuses with guts and gallons of blood spraying everywhere after an encounter with a lawnmower (yes, this is a nod to “Braindead”). Craven was fully aware of this, using his extraordinary talent to engage the audience in seemingly trivial stories.

Unlike the brutal films of the 1970s, which I mentioned earlier, “Swamp Thing” more frequently evokes Eros than Thanatos. The love between siblings, love for nature, and finally, the love between two people who exchange tender words, even when one of them becomes a monster. The result is reminiscent of the first season of “Twin Peaks“, where the soap-opera-like conventions and melodramatic love stories were interwoven with a mysterious atmosphere, set in broad daylight rather than the dark of night. This comparison is even supported by the casting, as Alec Holland, before his transformation, shares the same face as Leland Palmer. And in Ray Wise’s rich filmography (lately dominated by B-movies), this role still shines particularly brightly. As a scientist-playboy, the demonic host of Bob works almost as well as Robert Downey Jr. does in the skin of Tony Stark.

For today’s viewers, the love story between Holland and Alice Cable (played by Adrienne Barbeau, a horror legend from the 1980s) might seem improper and crude. Alongside tender moments, there are also aggressive ones that would, at best, result in social ostracism today. Wise occasionally channels Sean Connery’s Bond from “Goldfinger”, who practically committed assault, or Harrison Ford, who in almost all of his films won the hearts of his love interests through force. From the start, his character imposes himself on the newly arrived Alice, and when he achieves scientific success (making dead floorboards bloom), he aggressively grabs her and forces a kiss. Such behavior was always approved of in films from that era, but it’s hard to imagine the real-world reactions being the same.

Women don’t have it easy in “Swamp Thing”. Upon her arrival, Alice is met with the dismissive comment, “They sent a woman?” and when Holland invites her on an impromptu trip, she has to endure remarks from his companions like “stupid woman.” She also gets the usual “mansplaining” about DNA structure, while Arcane’s partner is told, “Darling, bring me a glass of cognac.” Some may say, “Those were the times,” and perhaps it’s a good thing we have a rich documentation of inappropriate behaviors to serve as a warning. Craven tries to fight this as well, falling into a stereotype of the era but still allowing Alice to stand up for herself and come out on top. She is the prototype of Sidney Prescott, who, fourteen years later, became the first scream queen to prove that such a character could be feisty and intelligent.

“Swamp Thing” is somewhat of a low-budget precursor to “The Shape of Water” — a story about love that transcends species and the fight against those who seek to stand in its way. As a film from 1982, it has my endless affection, but if I were to revisit “Swamp Thing” today, I’d prefer to see a moody horror film in the style of “A Quiet Place” or “It Comes at Night”, with a script by Alan Moore, of course.

The vastness of dark space can lead to existential reflections. However, if they resemble those presented in “Lucy in the Sky”, it’s better not to look up, to avoid realizing how little we truly have to say.

As is often the case, nothing on paper suggested such a spectacular disaster. The film was directed by Noah Hawley, the creator of the TV shows “Fargo” and “Legion”, who had recently proven he could craft both wild superhero visions and realistic dramas with well-defined characters. The cast included Natalie Portman, Jon Hamm, Zazie Beetz, Dan Stevens, and Ellen Burstyn. It was a safe bet that the film would be well-received by critics, perhaps even earn an Oscar nomination. But no. “Lucy in the Sky” is poetic gibberish that no one could save from the very start. Hopefully, it will quickly fade into the void of space.

The opening captions suggest the story is based on real events. If so, I’d want to disappear if I were the person who contributed a part of themselves to this production because it’s almost unbearable to watch. Though, to be fair, the beginning is somewhat promising. The title character (played by Portman) returns from a space mission. At first, as she walks in the darkness, the camera observes Earth, glowing below. Later, as she touches solid ground, the lens captures her attempts to return to normal life. Post-space recovery isn’t easy—once you’ve seen the vastness of the stars and the insignificance of earthly existence, how do you return to it and take it seriously?

Because of this, Lucy gradually loses touch with reality, perhaps descending into madness or perhaps finally experiencing life as it truly is. She redefines her marriage, gets closer to new people in her life, but above all, is entirely focused on fighting for a chance to return to space. Like a prayer, she mutters under her breath the tasks she must complete to avoid any mishaps. In doing so, she remembers the steps of procedures that might one day save her life during work in the cosmos. But life continues around her, and she is already halfway out of its mainstream. One careless move, and Lucy might lose both her shot at space and her hold on everyday life.

Since the script is woven from banal wisdom, it’s no wonder the actors are unable to showcase their talents in any meaningful way. From the start, Hawley seems intent on making a film similar to “Legion”—detached from the usual cause-and-effect relationships, drifting toward a confusing transcendence. What worked, to some extent, in the FX series proves to be a chaotic, pretentious display of artistic visuals and weighty quotes in a feature-length format. Hawley occasionally plays with screen resolution, changes the depth of the image, and enjoys creating visual associative sequences, presumably to reflect the character’s state of mind, but what’s the point when the audience is left with a clichéd story about a marital crisis with work-related problems in the background?

It’s no wonder the actors struggle to shine in a film built on such trite wisdom. Portman has no idea how to convey her character’s broken spirit, Hamm is merely an echo of his defining “Mad Men” role, Beetz flashes by like Halley’s Comet, but the most absurd appearance belongs to Dan Stevens. His charming mustache and puppy-dog eyes are all he can offer to salvage his bland, featureless character. He mumbles, gets angry once, and that’s it. Hopefully, he was paid well!

Usually, one can find at least one positive thing in a sea of mediocrity. But with “Lucy in the Sky”, it’s hard to do so. The most frustrating part is that Hawley’s film irritates on a basic level, offering viewers no opportunity to engage with or understand the world on screen. The director dreamed of creating a cosmic, quasi-hallucinogenic trip that hovers between dream and reality, and in a way, he succeeded. Unfortunately, he embarked on that journey alone.

Or perhaps experiencing “Lucy in the Sky” depends on the viewer’s state of mind. Maybe it’s worth following the first association the title brings to mind—the Beatles song “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds”—and chasing after the beautiful lady with the sun in her eyes to see Hawley’s film in a more favorable light.

In this opening sequence, which serves as the prologue to the film and prompts the viewer to ask questions, Robert Eggers signals the key themes of The Lighthouse. We are in for harsh weather conditions, submission to the sea’s power, and tense relations between the lighthouse keepers.

Just like in his previous film The Witch: A New-England Folktale (2015), set in the 17th century, the action in Eggers’ latest work is also set in the past. Initially, it was meant to be an adaptation of The LightHouse, Edgar Allan Poe‘s unfinished 1849 novel. Ultimately, the primary inspiration became the real-life event known as The Smalls Lighthouse Tragedy. In 1801, two Welsh lighthouse keepers, both named Thomas, were trapped for months due to a storm. After one of them died, the other descended into madness.

In the screenplay, written in collaboration with his brother Max, Robert Eggers emphasized that the film’s frames, with an almost square 1.19:1 aspect ratio, should be in black and white. On set, lenses from the interwar period were used, giving the carefully composed shots by Jarin Blaschke a visual resemblance to films by Georg Wilhelm Pabst or Fritz Lang. Comparisons to the German Expressionist fantasy genre, characterized by an atmosphere of mystery and madness, hallucinations, and nightmares, are not without merit. The mounting tension is further heightened by an outstanding score from Mark Korven, which features brass instruments and a glass harmonica, alongside the eerie sound of a foghorn. Eggers was intent on referencing the history of cinema, hence the inspiration from Bernard Herrmann, who composed music for such classics as Orson Welles’ Citizen Kane (1941) and Alfred Hitchcock’s Psycho (1960). Most notably, Eggers focused on using horns and pan flutes, evoking sounds reminiscent of the sea and music from ancient Greece.

This mixture of the director’s influences also manifests itself on a narrative level. Male rivalry, rooted in sailors’ superstitions and the reinterpretation of mythological motifs, is as prominent here as it is in Sigmund Freud’s dream theories. These seemingly disparate elements form a rich and open-ended story about two men, cut off from the world and forced to rely on one another within a claustrophobic setting.

Upon arriving on the island, the older and more experienced Thomas Wake (Willem Dafoe) quickly establishes dominance over his younger colleague by claiming the exclusive right to tend to the lighthouse’s light. Thomas Howard (Robert Pattinson), the story’s focalizer, is left with repair work, cleaning the cistern, and stoking the furnace—tasks that prove grueling in the harsh weather conditions, with Wake often undermining their effectiveness out of spite. Howard’s frustration builds, compounded by haunting nightmares that intensify after he brutally kills a seagull.

Interestingly, these nightmares are rarely clearly distinguished from reality; the boundary between the two blurs seamlessly. It is often only the subsequent scene that suggests we were witnessing the protagonist’s imagination. In one such dream, the man ascends the lighthouse, where the flickering light, whispers, and moaning, sticky ooze dripping from the ceiling, and the writhing tail of some slimy, thick creature create a disturbing metaphor for the tortured state of his mind. These images align with H.P. Lovecraft‘s concept of cosmic horror, rooted in fear that transcends rational explanation.

These visions reflect the protagonist’s desires and fears. The floating corpse references his failure to assist his former superior, a sign of guilt over fleeing and assuming the identity of the deceased Ephraim Winslow. The siren, on the other hand, is connected to a figurine the protagonist secretly masturbates to. In cultural terms, a siren—half woman, half fish—symbolizes fertility, sensuality, seduction, and the power of water, which contrasts with the male element of fire. In Greek mythology, sirens were believed to be dangerous and cunning, luring sailors with their beautiful songs only to drown them and drain their blood. Gaining access to the top of the lighthouse becomes Howard’s growing obsession. The light radiating from it symbolizes, among other things, eternity, immateriality, happiness, revelation, creative power, and wisdom. Howard’s subconscious, intense desire is thus cognitive in nature, taking the form of a metaphor for humanity’s pursuit of the ideal, immortality, and the discovery of life and death’s mysteries. The fantastical addition of dreams in this context foreshadows the direction of the plot—signaling Howard’s gradual loss of rational judgment and his suspicions about Wake.

Wake’s moody temperament only adds to the psychological strain on the younger Thomas. Interestingly, the Eggers brothers subtly weave homoerotic undertones into the turbulent relationship between the characters, skillfully integrating them into the toxically masculine, testosterone-fueled rivalry. Wake is furious when Howard tries to force his way into the lighthouse—a symbol of truth-seeking, spiritual light, and the immortality of the soul. Wake’s stance reflects both a selfish desire to keep the secret knowledge for himself and a duty to protect it from an unworthy Howard. For the novice lighthouse keeper, it becomes clear that the older man’s near-sexual obsession with the lighthouse is a sign of madness. Similarly, Howard’s obsessive visions point to his own instability. Neither man is a reliable protagonist.

The sailor deliberately convinces his colleague that more time has passed since they missed their return transport than is true, and he also denies statements he previously made. These cracks in the reliability of the narrative evoke films from the mind-game genre, particularly popular at the turn of the millennium. According to Thomas Elsaesser, such films are characterized by: a lack of psychologically credible motivation for the protagonist, the suspension of causality, a blurring of the distinction between objective and subjective reality, the protagonist creating an imaginary companion, and the character’s doubts about questions like, Who am I, and what is the reality around me?

In line with this interpretation, which also finds justification from a Jungian perspective, the revelation that both men share the same name suggests that Howard and Wake are the same person, trapped in an endless cycle in which they confront their past. The characters might represent different aspects of a single personality: Wake would symbolize the id, giving in to primal instincts, while Howard represents the ego, aware of social norms and trying to maintain humanity. This hypothesis is supported by the likely breaking of the lumberjack’s leg during a fall, which would equalize him with the sailor in terms of impaired mobility.

An equally plausible reading, and perhaps the most crucial for interpreting the entire film, relates to mythology. Wake mentions two mythological figures. Proteus, the son of the Greek sea god Poseidon and the nymph Nereid, was typically portrayed as a surly old man living on the island of Pharos. He had the gift of prophecy and was known for his great strength and ability to change shapes. Prometheus, the son of the Titan Iapetus and the goddess Themis, symbolized rebellion against the old order and the fight for progress. According to myth, he stole fire from Olympus and gave it to humanity, which spurred them toward conscious life: creating tools, cooking food, and warming themselves. As punishment, he was chained to a rock at the top of the Caucasus Mountains, where an eagle would tear out a piece of his liver every day. Although these two figures never met within a single myth, their paths metaphorically cross in the Eggers brothers’ film. Wake-Proteus is the older, gruff man living on an island, whose prophetic abilities are revealed when he foretells Howard’s future. During their confrontation, Wake transforms, becoming Winslow, a siren, and Poseidon in turn. Thomas Howard, meanwhile, corresponds to Prometheus. After killing Wake, the lumberjack ascends the lighthouse, but he is unprepared for the power of its light. The brilliance overwhelms him, driving him into ecstasy before it burns out his eyes.

In the final shot, inspired by the painting Prometheus by Belgian symbolist Jean Delville, Howard exists outside the constraints of time and space, beyond the world depicted in The Lighthouse. This technique may signify the endless repetition of the cycle of events. The Eggers brothers reinterpret the myth somewhat, casting Prometheus as a man unworthy of accessing the truth guarded by the lighthouse—a thief punished for his brazen attempt to possess a power he does not deserve. A biblical reading could also be plausible: Wake might represent God or Satan, testing Howard with the forbidden fruit. However, the most profound interpretation lies in the mythological context, giving the intimate story a universal and cosmic dimension. The greatness of The Lighthouse is evident in the multitude of possible interpretations, none of which exclude the others. As Robert Eggers said, Nothing good can happen when two men are trapped in a giant phallus.

Written by Joanna Krygier

Terrence Malick is undoubtedly the most romantic and spiritual director of our times. At the same time, however, he also comes across as a self-taught preacher. This is evident right from the start in his seventh film, “Knight of Cups” (2015).

In “Knight of Cups”, the creator of “Days of Heaven” invokes the famous Christian allegory “The Pilgrim’s Progress”, soon followed by a voice-over narration recalling the parable of a young prince, a knight, who is sent by his father to find a precious pearl but loses his memory and forgets the task he was given.

The very title itself hints at mysticism. “Knight of Cups” refers to a tarot card, symbolizing a sensitive, loving person who also struggles with the harshness of reality. Tarot imagery is present throughout the film, which Malick divides into eight chapters, seven of them titled after esoteric tarot cards. In addition to the pervasive spiritualism, the film is suffused with dreaminess and melancholy. This is because Rick (Christian Bale), the main character, is a mirror image of the “card knight.” Despite being wealthy and leading a comfortable life as a screenwriter in Los Angeles, Rick feels an existential emptiness. This can be likened to the previously mentioned parable, where Rick appears as someone who, influenced by others and his surroundings, forgets his higher purpose and leads a hedonistic, empty life.

However, the protagonist eventually wakes up from his stupor.

The film opens with an earthquake, literally. From that moment, the protagonist starts to view reality differently—a reality that Malick disapproves of. At one point, a character says, “We don’t live the lives we were created for. Something else is meant for us.” Shortly after, another character remarks, “You know who was extraordinary? Cleopatra. If her nose had been just a bit shorter, it would have affected the world.” Malick seems to want to believe this and suggests that humanity, as a society, is not in the right place. Nor is Rick. But unlike many others, he is searching for it. These searches are what we observe throughout the film as the protagonist “spins” among beautiful women, each of whom has a personal impact on his inner development. The lost Rick thus appears as a womanizer and playboy, but all of his lovers act as one great teacher, a kind of “meta-woman.”

One of the film’s undeniable strengths is that nearly all six of Rick’s romantic partners bring essential individualism.

There’s the rebellious and angry Della (Imogen Poots), the captivating and fun Karen (Teresa Palmer), and the understanding and warm Nancy (Cate Blanchett). But it’s not just the women. Rick also interacts with his family—his brother (Wes Bentley) and his father (Brian Dennehy). These relationships, however, are not easy and often lead to tension. The voice-over narration, a hallmark of Malick’s style, plays a key role in the film. Through it, we learn, among other things, that one of Rick’s brothers committed suicide and that he left his wife. The story is simple: a lost man searching for meaning in life. The prose of existence in a poetic… or perhaps pretentious… depiction?

Malick continues and expands the style he developed in “The Tree of Life” and “To the Wonder”.

The film’s strongest aspects are its technical elements. Cinematographer Emmanuel Lubezki delivers stunning visuals, at once a pleasant reprise of previous collaborations with the “Badlands” director, while occasionally evoking films by Michael Mann, like “Collateral” or “Public Enemies”. The soundtrack and use of classical music are also impressive, with Malick weaving it into the film as skillfully as Stanley Kubrick. But this was to be expected.

Unfortunately, the narrative itself is not as compelling. “Knight of Cups” is an experimental film, entirely devoid of familiar Hollywood dramatic tricks. One could even say that, compared to it, “The Tree of Life” is a “normal movie.” This isn’t a critique, more of a warning about what to expect. The “floating camera” follows the characters through various situations, and the editing often allows us to hear only fragments of their dialogue. The softly spoken narration is often laid over more or less picturesque landscapes of Los Angeles. The result is an ambivalent experience. At times, the film is intriguing, almost transcendent, but at others, it feels pretentious.

As befits a romantic, Malick paints a world devoid of irony.

Which is a pity. This story could have used some. That doesn’t mean the film lacks good moments—quite the opposite. It provokes a lot of thought. At one point, someone says, “The pieces of your life never come together. They just stay scattered.” In a sense, “Knight of Cups” is such a scattered collage. So, in a way, the film is a successful reflection of life—or at least a part or phase of it. A criticism, however, could be that both the characters and their world are heavily imbued with the director’s romanticism. This is especially apparent in scenes where people move strangely and unnaturally, like jellyfish drifting across the screen. Beautiful contortions, though perplexing.

“Knight of Cups” is not an easy film to love. The creator of “The Thin Red Line” surely knows this, but he remains faithful to his vision, and one cannot deny his artistic courage. Overall, though, one wishes for more. Perhaps next time. Will it work? Who knows? With Malick, probably only God knows.

“I don’t understand any of this, it doesn’t make any sense,” says one of the characters in the film Death Smiles on a Murderer, effectively summarizing the plot.

The story is set at the beginning of the 20th century. A young man, Franz von Holstein, mourns his deceased sister Greta, who, to his dismay, had become involved with a local doctor named Ravensbrück. Three years later, a carriage accident occurs near the estate of Ravensbrück’s son Walter and his wife Eva. The coachman dies on the spot, and the only survivor is a girl strikingly similar to Greta. Dr. Sturges, who is called to tend to the injured girl, detects no signs of life but conceals this fact from the Ravensbrücks. The girl doesn’t remember who she is or where she came from, and the only clue to her identity is a medallion she wears inscribed with “Greta 1906.” Walter and Eva take the mysterious girl under their care, and both gradually fall in love with her, leading to mutual suspicion and jealousy. Meanwhile, a series of murders shocks the local area.

Death Smiles on a Murderer is one of nearly 200 films in the career of Aristide Massaccesi, aka Joe D’Amato (1936–1999), an Italian director, screenwriter, producer, cinematographer, and photographer. Like his compatriot and colleague Antonio Margheriti, Massaccesi was quick, efficient, and capable of making films in almost any genre with almost any (usually small) budget. His filmography includes westerns (Scansati… a Trinità arriva Eldorado (1972)), comedies (Novelle licenziose di vergini vogliose (1973)), peplum (Diario di una vergine romana (1973)), swashbucklers (Pugni, pirati e karatè (1973)), war films (Eroi all’inferno (1974)), science fiction (Endgame (1983)), fantasy (Ator, the Fighting Eagle (1982)), as well as an abundance of erotic films (around 120 titles!) and horror films, the most famous being Beyond the Darkness (1979), Anthropophagus (1980), and Absurd (1981).

The credits for Death Smiles on a Murderer list Massaccesi, Romano Scandariato, and Claudio Bernabei as screenwriters, but the director claimed to have written the script himself, something he attributed to the film’s failure: “I’m afraid it’s a very flawed film, but that’s because I wrote the screenplay myself. When you don’t work with someone else, it’s much harder to come up with a good product, and I was really inexperienced when it came to writing scripts” [1]. Massaccesi used his own ideas in the script, along with motifs from giallo films and literary works such as Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu’s Carmilla and stories by Edgar Allan Poe, including The Cask of Amontillado, The Black Cat, and The Masque of the Red Death. The film was made on a budget of 150 million lire, which didn’t pay off: after its release, ticket sales totaled just over 70 million lire [2].

Death Smiles on a Murderer is an odd mix of Gothic horror and giallo – a tale of revenge from beyond the grave combined with a story about a voyeuristic serial killer. The creators also included elements of gore and exploitation cinema, but this genre juggling didn’t benefit the film: the pace often falters, plotlines are left undeveloped, and the disjointed narrative and numerous time jumps disrupt the clarity and coherence of an already convoluted plot. To make matters worse, there is little suspense, tension, or true horror. However, Death Smiles on a Murderer has some redeeming qualities: a dense, dreamlike atmosphere, stylish set design, an excellent soundtrack by Berto Pisano in the spirit of Ennio Morricone, stunning cinematography, and a talented cast, with Ewa Aulin (Greta) and the always reliable but underutilized Klaus Kinski (Dr. Sturges) standing out.

[1] L.M. Palmerini, M. Gaetano, Spaghetti Nightmares, Key West 1996, p. 77. [2] See R. Curti, Italian Gothic Horror Films 1970–1979, Jefferson 2015, p. 90.

This brief excerpt from the third chapter of East of Eden could easily serve as the motto for Elia Kazan’s adaptation. The character portrayed by James Dean saw through his father, yet did not abandon his desperate attempts to win his love. This small statement encapsulates the entire tragedy of Caleb Trask—a boy who simultaneously loved and hated his father.

Elia Kazan approached the adaptation of John Steinbeck’s novel in a rather original way. In agreement with the American writer, with whom he shared a close friendship (Kazan was one of the people Steinbeck entrusted to revise East of Eden), the director, along with screenwriter Paul Osborn, focused only on the last few dozen pages of the monumental book, starting the film’s action from the fourth part, Chapter 37. They limited the plot to the last generation, making the young outsider Caleb the protagonist. Many Steinbeck fans may not have liked such a bold adaptive choice, but the author himself approved, knowing that Kazan was intensifying the novel’s drama while bringing to the surface its essence—a generational conflict imbued with biblical motifs; an intimate family psychodrama set against the backdrop of Great History.

The film’s action does not begin in the mid-19th century, as in the literary original, but on the eve of World War I. Kazan and Osborn made the struggle for the father’s affection between two sons—the rebellious Caleb (Cal) and the obedient Aaron—the film’s narrative backbone. Their conflict, of course, mirrors the Old Testament duel between Cain and Abel (the reference is suggested by the first letters of the characters’ names). It’s no coincidence that the climax of the film version of East of Eden is the scene of gift-giving. Aaron presents his father with the news of his engagement to his partner Abra (played brilliantly by Julie Harris, a student at the Actors Studio), while Cal offers money he earned from growing beans, hoping to compensate his father for a painful financial failure he suffered a few months earlier. The father, like the Old Testament God, accepts Aaron’s gift with gratitude but rejects Cal’s offering, explaining that he couldn’t benefit from the bean profits, as the price had soared due to the U.S. joining the war.

The character of Aaron and Cal’s father is imbued with the traits of the Old Testament God. He is strict and unyielding, reserved and demanding. Yet, at the same time, he is the father of Caleb and Aaron, who represent modernized versions of Cain and Abel. In this context, his name—Adam—is no coincidence. Adam Trask is the biblical Adam after being expelled from Eden, a bitter old man whose best years are behind him. A man who once lost the love of his life and is tormented by the awareness of his failure. Kate, Caleb and Aaron’s mother, in Adam’s eyes, represents nothing less than the lost biblical Eden.

Raymond Massey portrayed the older Trask—a veteran actor associated primarily with the theater, a traditionalist, and a perfectionist in his craft. One doesn’t need to be an expert to guess that someone like Massey would have a hard time accepting someone like Dean—his working style, his penchant for improvisation, and his spontaneous behavior on set. To Kazan’s delight, the conflict on set escalated with each passing day. The director recalled:

There was an antagonism between them that I did not try to suppress. I must shamefully admit that I encouraged it—well, maybe I’m not ashamed at all; in directing, everything is fair game.

The antagonism Kazan referred to was most evident in the two extraordinary scenes—reading the Bible at the table and giving the birthday gift. In the first scene, under the director’s instruction, Dean interspersed the text of the Holy Scripture with mumbled obscenities, driving Massey into a fit of rage. The fury that screen Adam Trask experiences is entirely real—a brilliant artistic provocation suggested by Kazan and carried out by Dean. In the second scene, Jimmy showed his full initiative.

According to the script, Adam was supposed to reject Cal’s gift, causing him to immediately flee the house. But what happens on screen? After his film father refuses the son’s present, Dean slowly walks toward his father, his face transforming into a mask of pain, tears streaming down his face, and a quiet, steady moan of despair escaping his lips. A completely confused Massey begins to back away—this wasn’t in the script. Dean approaches his film father and hugs him, simultaneously dropping the money he was holding onto the floor. A marvelous scene, one that would never have happened if not for Jimmy’s flawless acting intuition, and let’s not forget, Massey’s endurance. The seasoned actor didn’t break character, though it’s easy to see how surprised he was by the turn of events.

East of Eden owes a lot to James Dean—his charisma, intuition, and photogenic appeal. Here, the young actor delivered his best, most moving performance, one could almost say, the role of his life. A life that was soon to end tragically in a car accident. It’s intriguing that Dean was driving down Highway 466 to participate in a race in Salinas. The very same Salinas where John Steinbeck was born, the very same Salinas so poignantly described in East of Eden.

Fading away, falling into oblivion, the dust that remains after our (short-lived) existence. No matter how you look at it, this idea seems to have always been with us. It eats away at us from within because time relentlessly speeds on, days turn into seconds, weeks into minutes, and months into hours. Death seems terrifying to us, but we usually view it in a rather limited (perhaps even ignorant?) way, as it seems so distant, so different from our physical reality. Not for the characters of “Palm Springs”—they know all too well what “daily dying” means; an endless dose of encounters with the grim reaper.

It’s a different story with the passage of time—we feel it with every breath, whether it’s slow and steady or heavy and anxious. We watch films that portray our dreams with a fiery sense of envy. But is it really a dream? It could very well be a desire, a desperate escape from time. “Brooklyn 9-9” star Andy Samberg plays Nyles, a confident free spirit—just the kind of image the actor loves—who’s forced to fight for his mental survival. A time loop catches him at a hot wedding. Soon, like Bill Murray‘s Phil in “Groundhog Day”, he’ll learn a thing or two about himself and others, uncover some secrets of the wedding guests, or simply enjoy the opportunity to relive the same day over and over again. Along the way, he’ll realize that humanity’s pursuit of immortality isn’t as appealing as it initially seemed. It’s a dreamlike illusion that sooner or later drives its participants to frustration.

“Palm Springs” might seem like a genre cliché, navigating between a well-worn formula (being stuck in a time loop) and the actors’ extraordinary performances. But that’s far from the truth. It’s a rom-com through and through, with a few wild sci-fi elements and its own unique narrative. The creators don’t aim to craft a grand moral tale (though there are some inner character transformations), but instead play with the form, adding flexibility. It’s an agile film about finding oneself in extraordinary situations, where the same 24 hours repeat endlessly. Nyles and Sarah (played by the fierce, brilliant Cristin Milioti alongside Samberg) face the monotony that at first seems like bliss but gradually reveals itself as a hellish existence in 95-degree heat.

The story being told here is interesting, as the loop itself can be (un)safe. On the one hand, every death resets our duo to the morning when they wake up and once again hear the memorized dialogues (it sounds like a nightmare to hear the same complaints from a family member). And even if this flirtation with infinity doesn’t get too complex, it definitely amuses with its playful nature. The characters revel in this illusory paradise in every possible way, which brings a lot of joy both to them and to us, the envious viewers who wish we could be in the same situation. On the other hand, not everyone in “Palm Springs” will be thrilled with the idea of repeating the same day endlessly. When Nyles pulls the vengeful Roy (a satisfying J.K. Simmons in a supporting role) into the loop, the nightmare becomes real—believe it or not, this older gentleman isn’t happy in this place at all. Nyles’ death (in various ways!) becomes Roy’s escape from the overwhelming boredom. The guy doesn’t hide his anger; he’s bitter and shows no mercy. Thus, a slow domino effect heralds a looming disaster…

It’s no secret that the idea for this feel-good movie is already somewhat archaic, especially using it in a comedic formula. Yet there’s still a fresh breeze about “Palm Springs”, a hidden magnetism. It’s directed with ease, skillfully edited, and even though it occasionally doesn’t hide its desire to be “music video-esque” and use original songs, there’s nothing stopping you from enjoying this festival of smiles.

“Palm Springs” is a bit like a chilled Sommersby. It’s for the masses, but it still tastes good—that’s why people keep buying it. And that’s also why this latest comedy starring Samberg is breaking popularity records on Hulu.