As I made this list, I wanted to give an overview of film history, honing in on pieces that are important in Western (especially American) cinema’s evolution. While the Koker Trilogy is undeniably great, its reach in shaping the broader cinematic medium, especially in the West, is limited (despite reflecting present-day leanings towards found footage and maximal realism). I have also chosen to avoid films I have not seen all the way through. I’ve seen the Odessa Steps segment in Battleship Potemkin and studied Eisenstein’s revolutionary editing techniques, but I could not recommend a film I have not seen as one of the best of all time no matter the expert consensus.

Another factor in my selection process was the overall trajectory of the filmmaker(s) involved to the best of my knowledge at the time of writing. While The Matrix is a great movie and highly regarded within its era, the Wachowskis’ later works have polarized audiences and critics considerably. It’s important to note that my list leans heavily male, reflecting both a historical bias in the industry and my personal gravitation towards directors who cater to male viewers. This list also restricts itself to feature-length films, ruling out shorts like the Lumiere brothers’ 50-second The Arrival of a Train. I also tried my best to include a variety of genres, otherwise this would devolve into a list of the 10 best crime films of all time.

With these considerations in mind, here are my selections for the 10 Best Films of All Time. You may have seen some, but I encourage you to watch those you haven’t, as they are sure to entertain and enlighten in various ways. These films are presented in no chronological order because ranking them is an impossible task, as they are each exceptional in their own right.

Follow me on X (Twitter) – @JacobFilmGuy

10. The Passion of Joan of Arc (1928)

Do you hate the idea of silent movies but are curious about giving one a try? Buster Keaton or Charlie Chaplin may be an easier starting point, as their comedic styles have a timeless appeal that resonates across generations. However, if you find yourself intrigued by the dramatic offerings of 1920s cinema, The Passion of Joan of Arc should be your first choice.

This film immerses viewers into Joan of Arc’s harrowing trial for heresy at the hands of English-aligned Frenchmen during the Hundred Years’ War, faithfully adapted from the event’s historical records. The director, Carl Theodor Dreyer, is hailed as one of the silent cinema’s maestros, standing tall among Europe’s early cinematic innovators.

As a silent film, it places emphasis on the visual aspects of film in a way that theater cannot replicate, showing the unique artistic power of cinema to put viewers right in the face of subjects. Renée Jeanne Falconetti’s portrayal perfectly conveys Joan’s torment and unwavering resolve. Dreyer’s directorial style is uniquely his own, blending techniques from various European cinematic movements to craft this masterwork.

Created on the cusp of the sound era, it may even be considered the pinnacle of the silent era, representing the apex of a crescendo that laid the foundation for the visual elements of the movies we know and love today.

9. Seven Samurai (1954)

Akira Kurosawa worked in many genres and eras, but is best remembered for his films about historical Japan. Rashomon and Yojimbo have stood the test of time, but Seven Samurai is undoubtedly his greatest work. It’s a simple story of a ragtag group of warriors who come together to defend a village from bandits, told exceptionally well in a way only film can.

Seven Samurai may be the breeziest three-hour film of all time, with not a moment wasted and excellent pacing to boot. The group’s interactions with each other and the villagers are what really make the film, and frequent Kurosawa collaborator Toshiro Mifune stands out for his attitude and posturing as a 16th century ronin. Kurosawa and cinematographer Asakazu Nakai’s talent as visual artists is shown in the stunningly composed shots that capture the Japanese countryside, intense action, and the good but complex nature of the film’s heroes.

The film also represents a cultural exchange between Western and Eastern cinema that will continue as long as those traditions exist – John Ford was an influence on Kurosawa whose films inspired directors like Sergio Leone, George Lucas, and the folks at Pixar who made A Bug’s Life… not to mention the film’s influence on the concept of team-ups in general.

No matter what type of film or genre you prefer, Seven Samurai and its influence is nearly inescapable within cinema.

Recommended for you: Akira Kurosawa, Toshiro Mifune: Cinema’s Greatest Collaborations

I have approached this list in a way that focuses on the objective strengths of films as opposed to my subjective favourites. While my personal tastes undoubtedly influenced my choices, I tried to remain as impartial as possible. Therefore, I have excluded countless films that I adore which don’t quite meet the ‘best ever’ criteria.

It feels like a crime not to have a single entry by directing greats such as Orson Welles, Paul Thomas Anderson, Agnès Varda, Francois Truffaut, Masaki Kobayashi, Andrei Tarkovsky, or Céline Sciamma. Ask me on a different day and a film by them could easily be included over something else. But, as it stands today, here are what I think are the 10 Best Films of All Time.

Follow me on Twitter – @MrGeorgeLAX

10. Koyaanisqatsi (1982)

Koyaanisqatsi is a 1982 experimental film directed by Godfrey Reggio. The film has no plot or narrative, and instead features a series of stunning and often surreal images set to a mesmerising musical score by the legendary Philip Glass. The title comes from the Hopi language, and can be translated as ‘life out of balance’. Koyaanisqatsi explores the relationship between humanity and nature, offering a powerful commentary on the impact of modern civilization on the environment.

Reggio’s documentary is a groundbreaking work of art that challenges conventional storytelling methods. It’s a reminder that the form of cinema is so malleable and that directors should be encouraged to stray from the path most trodden. The slow-motion and time-lapse shots of urban and natural landscapes creates both a sense of awe and unease. While its lack of a traditional narrative might be too challenging for some, for me it’s a visual experience that I am completely enthralled by. 

9. Princess Mononoke (1997)

I wanted to include an animated film on this list, and where better to look than to the master himself, Hayao Miyazaki?

Across his brilliant oeuvre, which includes works like Spirited Away and Kiki’s Delivery Service, Princess Mononoke is the one I consider to be his best. This epic tale follows the journey of Ashitaka, a valiant warrior who becomes embroiled in a bitter conflict between the forest gods and the humans who seek to exploit their resources.

Miyazaki’s masterful direction and attention to detail have created a world that feels both fantastical and grounded in reality, and the film’s themes of environmentalism, war, and spirituality are woven together seamlessly. Its stunning visuals and richly detailed world make for a visual feast. The blending of awe (such as the forest of kodama) with spectacle (the final act) creates a unique and imaginative experience. As with all of Miyazaki’s writing, the nuanced characters are a delight to watch due to their compelling stories and fearlessness. It’s for these reasons that Princess Mononoke is not only the best Studio Ghibli film, but one of the best films of all time. 

Recommended for you: 10 Best Studio Ghibli Films

Name a more iconic actor-director pairing from the mid-20th century than Akira Kurosawa and Toshiro Mifune. Unless you were going to say John Wayne and John Ford, we’ll wait for you to get back to us.

Over 18 years and 16 films they carefully crafted together, many made back-to-back or in quick succession, both iconic figures in Japanese cinema indisputably produced the most memorable and lasting work of their respective lengthy careers, doing so whilst working in such eclectic genres as crime movies, romantic dramas, adaptations of Shakespeare and East Asian folklore, and of course, as soon as the post-war ban on martial depictions was lifted, jidaigeki samurai films.

Coincidentally, both men were already working in different areas of the Japanese film industry during WWII – Kurosawa made propaganda films while Mifune was deployed in the aerial photography division of the Japanese armed forces. They both eventually found their way to Japanese mega production company Toho Studios. Toho gave both director and star their home throughout their long creative partnership, Mifune being discovered quite by accident in the “New Face” mass casting call after being rejected for his preferred job as a camera operator, while Kurosawa had steadily worked his way up from an assistant director under his mentor – the versatile pre-war filmmaker Kajirō Yamamoto – to write and direct his own projects.

Akira Kurosawa, much like Alfred Hitchcock, valued a polished script above all else and did not believe even a talented director could make up for shortcomings on the page. To mitigate this, he worked closely with a group which functioned almost like a modern American TV writer’s room, in order to exchange and improve upon ideas, ensuring the consistent quality of his screenplays. The final film was usually  made with his trusted creative team, the “Kurosawa-gumi”, including writers such as Ryūzō Kikushima and Shinobu Hashimoto, cinematographer Asakazu Nakai and script supervisor Teruyo Nogami. 

The pair’s memorable first encounter at an audition is recalled by Kurosawa thusly: “a young man reeling around the room in a violent frenzy… it was as frightening as watching a wounded beast trying to break loose. I was transfixed.”

To put it simply: Mifune was a force of nature. His aptitude for fighting both on screen and off, and the manner in which he threw himself into any task without visible fear, his intense stare, booming voice and intimidating presence made him impossible to ignore. He always stood out even in the impressive ensemble casts of such films as Rashomon and Seven Samurai. Kurosawa ended up designing some of the most memorable sequences in his always vivid films around what Mifune was likely to do, even though requiring some flexibility to accommodate his bankable but uncontrollable star could be a real problem for a director who would not budge an inch from his creative vision without good reason.

Their distinct working method involved both men intensively preparing separately from each other, and while their commitment to their beloved art form and often passionate disagreements certainly bore fruit, by the midpoint of both of their careers in film – following the difficult, contentious and much-delayed shoot of Red Beard (1965) – actor and director parted ways for good. Mifune’s career continued steadily on in Japan and abroad, but Kurosawa struggled with his work and mental health for over a decade until his modest late-life creative resurgence (roughly marked by the release of Kagemusha in 1980). Neither man quite hit the same heights they had reached while working together ever again. 

It is profoundly difficult to pick out a truly representative handful of films to stand in for the imposing Kurosawa/Mifune back catalogue, so we’ve gone a seasonal route and picked one of their collaborations from their early “spring” period, another from midway through, their “summer” and “autumn” periods, and finally one towards the end, the “winter” of their creative partnership. Please enjoy the first of The Film Magazine’s new series: Cinema’s Greatest Collaborations.

Spring: Stray Dog (1949)

Toshiro Mifune played tough Yakuza gangsters a lot in his early roles, notably in his film breakthrough with Akira Kurosawa, Drunken Angel in 1948, but was given the chance to be a lot more nuanced here in his third collaboration with his soon-to-be creative partner, playing a hapless and insecure cop. Both this and Drunken Angel also star Kurosawa’s other acting muse Takashi Shimura, but it is Stray Dog that gives Mifune in particular far more room to breathe as the unquestionable lead of the story, and he has far more opportunities to demonstrate multiple facets of his screen persona.

This sweaty, intense urban drama asks, what’s the most humiliating thing that could happen to a cop? Being promoted to Detective then immediately having your gun stolen on public transport by a common pickpocket has to be up there with the worst possible scenarios. Detective Murakami’s inadequacies both as a law enforcer and as a man are explored time and time again as he inadvertently digs himself into an even deeper hole in trying to put things right, eventually seeking help from the more level-headed and canny Detective Sato (Shimura) out of sheer desperation.

Because of the way he looked and sounded, Mifune specialised in, and was typically typecast as, scary brutes and slovenly slobs, but his versatility is tested here as he gets to be vulnerable and haphazard in how his character tries to correct his mistake. He ineffectually tries to chase down, and is often outsmarted by, prostitutes, dealers and smugglers, and so has no choice but to latch on to a senior colleague who actually seems to know what he is doing. 

Perhaps the best scene in the entire film is one of the more low-key sequences, where after an entire day of chasing a key witness without a result, the sex worker in question buys him a beer and some food and listens to his woes before providing some key information seemingly not out of honesty or duty but out of pity for this pathetic excuse for a police officer. Kate Blowers highlights in her essay “A Japanese Bull in a China Shop” that “When things go wrong for Mifune—as they often do, particularly in his earlier films—they go tremendously wrong”. Perhaps no other film in the entire Kurosawa/Mifune filmography shows this as explicitly as Stray Dog.

Mifune’s eldest son Shirō described his father’s unmistakable presence and unique working method, which can be seen plainly in most of his screen appearances: “He’s not an actor who blends into the background. You feel him energising everything around him. [Even though] he studied his part thoroughly, in front of the camera when they yelled “Action!” he forgot everything and just went for it”. Mifune’s performance often had a feeling of improvisation around it despite his meticulous preparation, which helped all of his characters feel immediate and raw. 

Mifune could be scary, attention-grabbing and forceful, but in few of his films, especially those with Kurosawa, did he get to be this withdrawn, pitiable and fundamentally sad.

Summer: Throne of Blood (1957)

Throne of Blood is one of three Akira Kurosawa films heavily inspired by William Shakespeare plays (the others being the “Hamlet”-riffing The Bad Sleep Well and “King Lear” reimagined as Ran). In this case, the acclaimed director closely adapted “Macbeth”, transposing events to a particularly moody and atmospheric vision of Medieval Japan.

What better persona to embody barely-in-check madness than Mifune? As the increasingly unhinged Lord Washizu, he plays the part of a strong and charismatic leader, but with an ever-present element of instability, of unpredictability, perfect for any portrayal of Shakespeare’s severely troubled and timeless protagonist. Mifune’s exaggerated striding gait, mad stare and tendency to laugh inappropriately in deathly serious situations helped to punctuate many a serious Kurosawa scene with welcome levity, but here it’s all in aid of the high melodrama. 

The film is one of the few genuinely disturbing film adaptations of “Macbeth”, the more explicitly supernatural elements delving deeply into Japanese folklore and the striking visuals borrowing from Noh theatre traditions, from the makeup applied to the actors to the highly theatrical staging of the most powerful scenes. Gone are the three witches, in their place an evil forest spirit appearing as a decrepit woman spinning a loom, foretelling triumph and turmoil, the haunting spectres who appear unbidden to our Macbeth stand-in looking just like something from Japanese folkloric art. 

Either as a commitment to realism or out of sheer recklessness, Throne of Blood‘s unforgettable finale sees the (uninsured and potentially expensive star) Mifune being shot at with real arrows by a college archery team playing his lord’s treacherous army. Kurosawa at times seems to care so little for his star that you wonder how such high budget projects ever managed to get off the ground. Tom Cruise’s insurance coverage might be a nightmare to navigate for modern blockbuster filmmakers, but the same risks were in evidence decades earlier in Japan with Mifune. 

An observation made in feature documentary Mifune: The Last Samurai is that: “Kurosawa demanded everything from his cast and crew and was exacting in every detail, but he left it to Mifune to develop his own character, telling him “Do what you want with it”.” The Kurosawa-gumi had Shakespeare’s words, their own Japanese cultural perspective, and a whirling dervish of an acting force that simply needed to be pointed in the right direction and unleashed, so no extra embellishment was required to make the final product as dramatic as it could be. 

Haruo Nakajima (actor in Godzilla and Seven Samurai) remembers that “Mr. Kurosawa would spend an entire day filming one shot… Working with Mr. Kurosawa was like working on a play instead of a movie. We would spend a great deal of time rehearsing. It was torturous.” While this rule of intensive rehearsal  and control over his cast went for most of Kurosawa’s cast members, particularly on such high-profile and expensive features as Seven Samurai, it didn’t seem to apply to Mifune because giving him such instruction simply couldn’t be done. Luckily for Kurosawa, he saw what Mifune brought to the table and worked around him rather well.

Autumn: The Bad Sleep Well (1960)

Two characters who are shown talking about Mifune’s character in The Bad Sleep Well are neatly analogous for how this particular performance took many viewers by surprise: “What’s his efficiency rating? / Almost perfect, but he is very reserved.”

Extremely dialled-back by his usual standards this particular performance may be, this demonstrates Mifune at his coolest and most suave. Rather than unleashing a hurricane, Kurosawa tapped into his star’s captivating camera presence and inherent charisma to keep the focus always on him when he’s on screen and the audience’s thinking on him whenever he isn’t. 

Mifune plays Kōichi Nishi, seemingly an ambitious corporate type who marries into the family who run the corrupt Dairyu Construction Company, engineering an elaborate scheme to bring the company down from the inside as revenge for a family loss as a result of their dirty dealings. Though we only see him briefly in the opening sequence before the film’s first half focuses on the other key players, the denouement is all about Nishi and his plans coming to fruition, doing very bad things to bad people; Mifune being calm, collected and crafty all the way through.

Chuck Stephens commented on Mifune’s anti-hero in his essay for Criterion: “though he is mute for the first thirty minutes of the movie, it is Mifune’s stoic Nishi who will soon be shown as the poker-faced pivot around which the film’s every action and reaction will revolve.”

The Bad Sleep Well launched Kurosawa’s self-titled production company independent of Toho and marked a move from outright commercial filmmaking, the release making a slight loss at the Japanese box office but still earning plaudits from critics at home, particularly for its intricately plotted, noirish first half.

Kurosawa going independent of Japan’s biggest studio allowed him to get extremely political and discuss the dire state of post-war Japanese business practices, particularly in the film’s repeated insult: “He’s not a man, he’s an official”. Kurosawa uses the “Hamlet” story template and makes it as modern and relevant as it could be to a country re-establishing itself, and with his newfound freedom from interfering studio higher-ups and with the end of post-war restrictions on explicit political commentary in Japanese cinema, he could really get stuck in. Chuck Stephens again described Kurosawa’s aims for the film succinctly: “a film whose bitter intent—to throw open the windows of Japanese corporate corruption and air out the stench—is staged as a series of haltingly revealed motivations, haggard resurrections, and harrowing defeats“.

Despite the fascination of seeing Mifune breaking his usual mould, this most definitely wasn’t a crowd-pleaser – the film is hard-going and demands your constant attention – but Kurosawa’s main goal was to ask his audience to consider Japan’s place in the world and what, if anything, could be justifiably sacrificed on a moral level for the sake of economic stability. 

Winter: Yojimbo (1961)

From the extremes of a dark and cerebral social issues film, Akira Kurosawa and Toshiro Mifune’s next collaboration spawned a character so successful it resulted in the pair’s only direct sequel. Sanjuro came just a year after Yojimbo, which in turn spawned the completely unauthorised remake (as in “we’ll see you in court” unauthorised) from Sergio Leone, A Fistful of Dollars, which kick-started the iconic Dollars Trilogy starring Clint Eastwood.

Mifune plays a nameless rōnin (wandering, masterless samurai) wearing a shabby kimono, unabashedly scratching and yawning away, seemingly uninterested in the affairs of the world except for where his next meal is coming from. He is reluctantly pressed into service to defend a town from some cruel local gangsters, but does not feel obligated to go above and beyond what he is being paid to do.

Forming his own production company, Kurosawa Productions, to house his more ambitious projects and lessen Toho’s understandable fears of heavy financial losses following the uninspiring reception of the challenging corporate thriller The Bad Sleep Well, Kurosawa returned to the Samurai films he was still best-known for and helped establish many a convention of lone warrior action movies in the following decades with Yojimbo.

Hisao Kurosawa (the director’s eldest son) points out that “Yojimbo was Kurosawa’s attempt at doing something fun. He wanted to do something everyone would enjoy”. This is Kurosawa doing popcorn entertainment, and it and its sequel Sanjuro influenced multiple genres and wider cinematic iconography for the following decades, including the way fight scenes (both sword duels and quick-draw gunfights) were staged and edited in addition to establishing how you use stylised violence to punctuate a genre film in everything from Sam Peckinpah’s The Wild Bunch to Quentin Tarantino’s Kill Bill. 

If there’s one indelible image associated with this film, it’s the iconic finale with Sanjuro/the Ronan with No Name (much like Clint Eastwood’s Western icon he never receives a definitive moniker) facing off against the criminal gang in a deserted, windswept street. Previously an insouciant, unflappable presence as prone to standing by and laughing at threats as fighting them, in this moment and despite the seemingly overwhelming odds he becomes the hero the town deserves and dispatches the foes outnumbering him impressively easily and in record time. This was another of Mifune’s skills, he could switch modes in the blink of an eye from sleepy house cat to ferocious tiger (the latter of which was famously an inspiration for the restless way some of his characters moved).

Steven Spielberg theorises that “We don’t make the heroes, it’s up to the audience to turn a character into a hero. And the power of that is in the performance of the actor, it’s up to the actor even more than the director, because a director can only pull so many strings, but if a director pulls too many strings it’s a puppet not an artist”.

Teruyo Nogami (regular Kurosawa script supervisor and one of the director’s inner circle of creatives) said that “People have no idea how hard [Mifune] worked. He was always thinking about his character and how to add humour to it”. No matter how intense Mifune’s screen presence was and how thematically layered Kurosawa’s greatest films are, both men saw the value of diffusing tension, of giving a scene a more varied rhythm and a character more humanity with the addition of a funny grace-note, background buffoonery to repeated physical tics. 

Akira Kurosawa and Toshiro Mifune were a creative partnership for the ages, one that left an indelible mark on film in Japan and around the world, and as artists they were never stronger than when they were working side-by-side. Despite not speaking to arguably his most significant creative collaborator for three decades, when he outlived his muse by just a few months Kurosawa sent a letter to be read at Mifune’s funeral, movingly capturing what their love-hate relationship and their long and often tumultuous collaboration really meant, and perhaps in his way apologising for the way things ultimately turned out:

“When I look back on each and every film, I couldn’t have made them without you. You gave so much of yourself. Thank you, my friend.”

Recommended for you: Where to Start with Akira Kurosawa

Living (2022)
Director: Oliver Hermanus
Screenwriters: Kazuo Ishiguro
Starring: Bill Nighy, Alex Sharp, Aimee Lou Wood, Tom Burke

Touching one of the most revered films by one of the most revered directors to ever call ‘Action’ on a film set is always a tricky business. And when it’s Akira Kurosawa you’re remaking – specifically his 1952 film Ikiru – you had better hope that your film is damn good. Living (2022) attempts to do such a thing, transplanting post-war Japan for post-war Britain. It sees Bill Nighy take on the lead role of Mr Williams, an elderly civil servant mindlessly going through the motions, who goes on a search for a new meaning to life when he is dealt a cruel blow in the doctor’s office.

There has not been much change from the original film, which was released 70 years ago. Indeed, many shots and sequences, (including a shot of Mr Williams’ vacant seat framed centrally with his subordinates either side of the picture, a wipe montage sequence of a group of petitioning ladies going from department to department to be seen to with no luck, and the famous shot of our lonely wanderer on a child’s swing) are all lifted directly from the original. This is simply a British re-telling of the film, not an attempt to do anything radically new with the subject matter. It is almost identical, save for a slight modification of a few sequences, a condensing in runtime by about half an hour, and some fun experiments with film form with regards to its quality and some periods of black and white photography. The choice to present Living in a smaller aspect ratio of 1.48:1 keeps it contained and subdued, perhaps also reflecting the time period in which this aspect ratio was far more common.

What could be an incredibly run-of-the-mill adaptation still holds great power for numerous reasons. That the core story is moving by default, is the first. Secondly, Bill Nighy (nominated in the Actor in a Leading Role category at the 95th Oscars) is utterly astonishing. Simply portrayed, yet heartbreaking and incredibly moving, he is a delight in every frame that passes by. He’s perfectly suited to the role, and excels beyond imagination. The supporting cast of Aimee Lou Wood (‘Sex Education’), Tom Burke (The Souvenir), Alex Sharp (The Trial of the Chicago 7), and others, are also on point, and lend great support to the central pillar. The score from Emilie Levienaise-Farrouch, who also composed for British independent films Rocks and Censor, is fabulous, the world of post-war Britain well realised with what is plainly a smaller budget, and the direction from South African Oliver Hermanus (Moffie) is simple and refined.

What more could one ask for? Well… perhaps the exclusion of a section of dialogue on a train three quarters of the way through; one which is so excruciatingly painful and on-the-nose – a literal explanation of the message of the film incorporating gag-worthy speeches – that even a five year old would wish to throw up. Such a beautifully nuanced film is almost completely derailed by what seems to be a lack of common sense from BAFTA-nominated screenwriter Kazuo Ishiguro. Cut that dialogue, have it be told through subtext, and we’re bordering on as near flawless as we can get.

One must wish that this single exchange was left on the cutting room floor, though this disappointing sequence ultimately doesn’t detract from the rest of what is a well-constructed and interesting adaptation. Living, the 2022 period drama based on a story from 7 decades ago, is certainly a film one could go on living for.

Score: 19/24

Living is on digital 3 March and Blu-ray & DVD 13 March 2023.

The Last Duel (2021)
Director: Ridley Scott
Screenwriters: Nicole Holofcener, Ben Affleck, Matt Damon
Starring: Matt Damon, Adam Driver, Jodie Comer, Ben Affleck

Ridley Scott, the man behind some of the most famous films of all time – Alien, Blade Runner, Thelma & Louise, Gladiator and of course that Hovis commercial – has solidified himself as one of the most prolific filmmakers of all time. It hasn’t all been good, with strings of all-time great blockbuster offerings being followed by dour patches – for every classic such as Alien or Blade Runner there are commercially and critically disappointing follow ups such as Legend and Someone to Watch Over Me. For every Gladiator there is a Hannibal. This path has remained consistent throughout Scott’s career and is perhaps even more consistent in the director’s later years. With the Ben Affleck and Matt Damon penned The Last Duel however, Scott makes it two for two on critically admired offerings, continuing the upward trajectory Scott has found himself on post-The Martian (Alien: Covenant not included).

The Last Duel tells the story of the last officially recognized judicial duel fought in France in 1386, between Knight Jean de Carrouges and squire Jacques Le Gris after Carrouges’ wife Marguerite de Carrouges accused Le Gris of raping her. 

Many will note similarities between the structures of The Last Duel and Akira Kurosawa’s Yojimbo. The structural choice from Damon, Affleck and fellow writer Nicole Holofcener (Can You Ever Forgive Me?) was most definitely a brilliant choice as it creates the circumstances under which any viewer of The Last Duel can tap into the talents of the writing team: the film’s greatest strength.

The Last Duel is split up into four sections: the truth as told by Jean de Carrouges (Damon), the truth as told by Jacques Le Gris (Driver), the truth as told by Marguerite de Carrouges (Comer) and, of course, the last duel. Splitting the film into these sections allows for some truly great character work, showing the story through each of their eyes. Even when two or more characters seemingly agree that an event happened in exactly the same way, it is clear that their actions within the event are seen differently, bringing more humanity (or disgust) to characters in the process.

The character work isn’t always perfect, and this is most clear in Alex Lawther’s King Charles VI. In order to get the events of the film to where they need to be, Charles is required to remain fair and justified in his actions, yet at random points he suddenly appears as a mad king with a lust for blood. This complete clash of personality traits doesn’t further any mystery but instead only causes us to scratch our heads at the baffling portrayal.

Jodie Comer, by contrast, is incredible as Marguerite. With this being her largest feature film role to date, she makes the most of her screen time and steals every single scene she is in, bringing an immeasurable amount of depth to her character. Adam Driver, as always, is an easy second best as far as the performances go, the Oscar nominee proving that he really can do just about anything. As for Damon and Affleck, this is where issues begin to arise.

Matt Damon generally portrays his character well as a mean but proud and loyal man, it is just that there are some instances in which he could have dialled it down a little. Ben Affleck has a similar issue in that he feels as though he is almost always at 100. He has proven in the past that he can give quiet, subtle performances yet, while admittedly his character Count Pierre d’Alençon is not a quiet nor subtle person, Affleck seems to have gone off the deep end with this one.

The issues within the writing and the acting are telling of the film as a whole. The Last Duel is great for the most part but almost every aspect has issues within it that are simply puzzling, causing us to question how these issues ever made it as far as they did. Through this we must look upon Ridley Scott’s direction. Once again, his work behind the camera is great for the most part – his career to date has shown us that he knows how to build worlds and film a period epic, and this is on show here through the use of terrific practical effects, costumes, lighting and sets – yet there are a handful of questionable decisions within Scott’s direction that ever so slightly weigh down the film’s greatest aspects. 

The Last Duel is not a perfect film, the questionable decisions in multiple aspects of the movie can occasionally take you out of the experience, but to The Last Duel’s credit it always does just about enough to suck you back in, and by the end of the film it is clear that as a whole The Last Duel’s pros outweigh its cons.

The Last Duel is most certainly better than Scott’s previous effort All the Money in the World and is arguably one of his greatest films of this century. It may not be on par with Scott’s most famous works such as Alien and Blade Runner, but it is a very good film in its own right. It’s a pleasure to see the director’s career on yet another upswing. 

18/24

Isle of Dogs (2018)
Director: Wes Anderson
Screenwriters: Wes Anderson, Roman Coppola
Starring: Bryan Cranston, Jeff Goldblum, Bill Murray, Tilda Swinton, Harvey Keitel, Greta Gerwig, Yoko Ono

Following on from the critical and public smash that was The Grand Budapest Hotel, Wes Anderson returned to screens after a break of four years with 2018’s Isle of Dogs. The film was Anderson’s second foray into the world of stop-motion animation after 2009’s Fantastic Mr Fox. As with all Anderson projects, the ensemble cast proved to be one of the main draws, on this occasion led by the voice of ‘Breaking Bad’ star Bryan Cranston and Anderson regulars Bill Murray and Jeff Goldblum, each of whom played members of a group of dogs exiled to Trash Island by the infamous Kenji Kobayashi, mayor of Megasaki, whose family was proven to have a generations-deep hatred of canines.

Upon release, Isle of Dogs earned rave reviews and received nominations throughout awards season for Best Animated Feature. Writing in The Guardian, leading British film critic Mark Kermode noted that “Isle of Dogs is a delight: funny, touching and full of heartfelt warmth and wit”. This certainly wasn’t the only outpouring of love for the film, with many noting how well Anderson’s style suited the animation, praising the film’s quirkiness and humour. There have been some detractors who have criticised the way it depicts Japanese culture, with accusations of cultural appropriation, but the overarching consensus is that Isle of Dogs turned out to be one of Anderson’s stronger films.

The core narrative of Isle of Dogs centres on Mayor Kobayashi’s nephew Atari (Koyu Rankin) who sets off to Trash Island to recover his guard dog spots (voiced by Liev Schreiber). Along the way Atari encounters Chief (Cranston), Duke (Goldblum), Rex (Edward Norton), Boss (Murray) and King (Bob Balaban), and together they form a ragtag crew of exiled dogs, all of whom are slightly world-weary and struggling to survive in their newfound world separated from humanity.

The story focuses on both the situation on the island itself and the developing issues on the mainland, where we follow efforts from the government to cover up the fake disease that was used as the reason to exile the dogs. We also follow US foreign exchange student Tracy Walker (voiced by Lady Bird and Little Women director Greta Gerwig) in her efforts to expose the mayor’s lies.

The voice cast is one of the film’s clearest strengths, with Bryan Cranston suitably gruff and grizzled as Chief, a dog whose relationship with Atari and his fellow dogs form the film’s core. Jeff Goldblum’s Duke acts more as comic relief, while there is a fun smaller part for Tilda Swinton as Oracle, a seemingly wise dog.

While the film zips along as many of Anderson’s other films do, it still has a strong sense of heart and intimacy, and the way the relationship between Atari and Chief develops is especially indicative of this.

The score from Anderson regular Alexandre Desplat is another of the film’s high points. Incorporating traditional Japanese soundscapes and built around taiko drums with flourishes of woodwind, the score acts as a nice contrast to Desplat’s previous Anderson compositions – there are even nods to the works of Akira Kurosawa and glimpses of Prokofiev’s “Lieutenant Kijé” throughout the film. In between the more typically Japanese sounds of the score, Desplat and Anderson leave room for spots of popular music as has become customary of Anderson’s filmography, in this case focusing mainly on the eerie tones of The West Coast Pop Art Experimental Band.

Isle of Dogs is a loving tale of canine and human friendship, recreating the culture of Japan in a heartfelt manner that illustrates Anderson’s appreciation for Japanese culture and the nation’s people. As with other Anderson films, the offbeat nature may prove to be off-putting to newcomers, but Anderson purists are in for a treat filled with familiar voices who blend into their surroundings meticulously.

Isle of Dogs once again illustrated Wes Anderson’s versatility as a director and was a bold move away from the trappings of The Grand Budapest Hotel which had earned such acclaim. With a filmography that only looks set to grow, one can only hope that Anderson makes further trips into the world of animation.

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This article is a selection of three of his most emblematic films, each of which can be used as a starting point to approach Ozu’s style. Selected here are Late Spring (Banshun – 1949), Tokyo Story (Tōkyō Monogatari – 1953) and Good Morning (Ohayō – 1959), three films which helped to write the rules of cinematography and showcase Ozu’s trademarks in terms of shots, use of music, composition and theme. The order of said films is purely chronological, as all three are equally relevant to understanding Ozu’s significance.

Late Spring and Tokyo Story show two contrasting portrayals of parent-child relationships. In Tokyo Story (1953), the children of the old couple are caught up in their own issues and daily routine, so much so that they do not have time to spend with their elderly parents; whilst in Late Spring (1949) the daughter is affectionate towards her father and does not want him to live alone. In contrast with the previous two, Good Morning (1959) centres around the daily lives and adventures of three children living in the same neighbourhood. The subject matter seems lighter, but this is used by Ozu to explore the contrast between tradition and modernity, as well as social conventions. Whilst Late Spring and Tokyo Story are filmed in black and white, Good Morning (1959) is a rare foray into colour film, yet all three share the same stylistic features found across Ozu’s remarkable oeuvre.

1. Late Spring (Banshun, 1949)

Late Spring focuses on the relationship between a widower, Shukichi Somiya, and his daughter, Noriko. Shukichi wants his daughter to settle down with the help of his sister, Noriko’s aunt, Masa Taguchi. Noriko, however, does not want to leave her father alone. The two eventually make Noriko believe that her father is willing to remarry Mrs. Miwa, also a widow, and the events of Late Spring are thus set into motion.

As is the case with many other Ozu films, Late Spring explores personal relationships and family issues, but also quite significantly the role of marriage. Marriage played a pivotal role in Japanese society during the time of Ozu’s work, and is a key thematic element to each of his pictures, the dynamic explored here through the portrayal of the father-daughter relationship.

In Late Spring, Ozu mostly uses static shots in a manner indicative of modern documentaries, a style he’d become well known for throughout his career. In order to show the setting outside, he makes use of extreme wide shots; interiors, on the other hand, are frequently filmed in medium shots, wide shots and so-called American shots, though each is always static. In some scenes and pivotal sequences, when two central characters are exchanging dialogue, Ozu does not abide by the 180 degree rule (which is a basic filmmaking principle that ensures the audience can follow the action by placing each of the cameras on the same side of the set comparative to the actors).

Some important sequences are necessary to analyse in order to understand the way Ozu portrays feelings through the placement of his camera.

The first to consider is a sequence at the Noh theatre (a traditional Japanese Theatre) which is filmed in a static shot. Noriko and her father are observing the performance; only after some time do we see the actual performance on stage. Then we are shown Noriko and her father again. When her father looks at Mrs. Miwa, they both greet her, but Noriko is visibly upset, and that is shown by the shots lingering on her – the music of the theatre performance and the actors’ dialogue also seeming to mirror her feelings. The last shot in this sequence shows a tree, which is emblematic of both the performance and of Noriko’s isolated state of mind; her growing loneliness.

This sequence is an important representation of Ozu’s style because we hear diegetic music (that is music that the characters also hear), when in most of the filmmaker’s pictures the music is non-diegetic and used to represent the filmmaker’s intent, whether that be to introduce the mood of a location or to comment on events of the narrative. By experiencing the music along with the characters in this instance, Ozu asks us to step into their shoes and empathise with their situations.

An emblematic sequence to understand the father-daughter relationship present in Late Spring is one in which Mr. Somiya tells Noriko that he’ll remarry Mrs. Miwa.

Noriko cries and does not approve of her father’s choice. However, the two mend their relationship, as Mr. Somiya delivers a speech on the meaning of happiness, saying that happiness is something one has to build upon and believe in. This sequence can be said to convey the message of the whole picture, and represent Ozu’s intent to celebrate familial comfort and fatherly love throughout his filmography.

Ultimately, Late Spring may seem to paint a bittersweet picture of family relationships on the surface, but its significance lies in how Ozu addresses this, as well as how he comes to portray Japanese social expectations and social structures.

2. Tokyo Story (Tōkyō Monogatari, 1953)

Tokyo Story is a classic of Yasujirō Ozu’s filmography and one of the most notable works produced by any Japanese director.

The story focuses on an elderly couple, Shūkichi and Tomi Hirayama, who live with their daughter Kyōko. They travel from Onomichi to Tokyo in order to visit their children: their son Kōichi, who is a doctor; their daughter Shige, a hairdresser; and their widowed daughter-in-law, Noriko, whose husband is missing in action during the Pacific War. Another son, Keizō, lives in Osaka. Although the couple are happy to see their children, they are almost immediately disappointed, as the two realise their children are completely indifferent and uncaring, and see their parents as a nuisance. The only person who cares for them is Noriko.

This addressing of discontent between generations within a single family echoes that of Late Spring from four years earlier, and Ozu’s disregard of the 180 degree rule is also present, one scene in which the parents and Noriko share great affection towards one another being shot from low angles and behind each character’s head, abandoning the filmmaking principle to make for a more immersive experience that quite literally places us in the position of each of his central characters.

Just like in Late Spring, in Tokyo Story a mix of non-diegetic and diegetic music is present. For example, when Hirayama, Hattori and Nomata drink together in a bar, they talk about the younger generations that do not seem to hold ambition, thus seemingly suggesting Ozu’s point of view on Japanese society of the time. In this scene, diegetic music from the streets can be heard, another instance being the elderly couple’s stay at some hot springs as musicians playing guitars and accordions wake them from their sleep.

Tokyo Story is, overall, another example of Ozu focusing on family and generational change, though in this instance the relationship is much more strained in comparison to Late Spring. It marks an evolution in thematic exploration that ensures Tokyo Story is both new and familiar to Ozu’s earlier work. As the various elements in music, cinematography and theme evolve but do not drastically change, Ozu’s authorial stamp remains ever-present.

3.Good Morning (Ohayō, 1959)

Ozu’s second colour film after Equinox Flower (1958), Good Morning (Ohayō – 1959) is another strong thematic link in Ozu’s oeuvre, this time placing itself in the shoes of two young children and their conflicts with their parents.

Well and truly a product of the TV-boom of the 50s, the television set is at the centre of this film’s story since the two main characters, the brothers Minoru and Isamu Hayashi, want their parents to buy them a television, but are refused, the brothers deciding to stop speaking and eating as a sign of protest.

Despite the at times dark subject matter, Good Morning is a film with a lighter tone than Late Spring and Tokyo Story and is filled with comedic moments, yet Ozu’s typical stance on generational change remains effective. Here, he decides to focus upon the perception that television will make you stupid – a point of view his central characters voice in opposition to their desperate children – and brings a lot of focus to the westernisation of Japanese culture; of new fashion trends and the commodification of family living.

Good Morning is, in this respect, a unique evolution of Ozu’s work, as it focuses squarely on the coming changes to his nation as opposed to the traditions (in terms of lifestyle, family relationships etc.) he has portrayed in his previous films and he seems to agree with . The techniques and shots used are the same as the other two films, as is the use of non-diegetic music, this 1959 release being unmistakable as an Ozu film, but it’s this evolution in theme – rather than in lightness of narrative – that makes it unmissable, and a fantastic starting point in Ozu’s filmography.

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In contrast to the work of Akira Kurosawa, Yasujirō Ozu’s pictures appear as more static and less engaging upon first sight – certainly less visually striking – but the work Ozu presents isn’t meant to be consumed quickly in all of our post-modern ways (gifs, video essays, etc.), it is supposed to be engaged with and thought about on a film by film basis, and in its own way is equally as poignant and relevant to Japanese culture and the art of cinematography. Although both Kurosawa and Yasujirō Ozu represent Japanese tradition and culture, they remain vastly different in their approaches, Ozu thus cementing his place as an indelible part of Japanese film history and an ideal counter to Kurosawa’s representation of Japanese filmmaking.

Source: Richie, Donald. 1963-64. “Yasujiro Ozu: The Syntax of His Films”. Film Quarterly. Vol. 17, No. 2: 11-16.

Akira Kurosawa, born in Tokyo in 1910, is regarded as one of the most influential directors of all time, not only for his skills as a screenwriter and director but also for the influence his movies have exerted over western cinema, most reputably on Star Wars. For all of the great filmmakers to descend from Japan, Kurosawa is noted as being perhaps the most influential as regards the spreading of Japanese culture, history and ideologies worldwide.

The three works outlined in this article are a recommended guide on how to approach Kurosawa’s ouevre for the first time. This list will not include Rashomon (1950), which is arguably his most notable work and was an influence on many other filmmakers due to its new narrative technique (known as the ‘Rashomon effect’), because it is a very complex film for many reasons beyond that of its directorial style, and therefore not the best place to start when attempting to become familiar with the director’s filmography.

The three films selected here are instead ones that accurately illustrate a continuity in terms of genre, setting and score across Kurosawa’s long and respected career. All three can be ascribed to the Jidaigeki genre, that is the Japanese term used to describe period films set in historical Japan, and each is a remarkable and hugely reputable release worthy of consumption for any fan of the cinematic art form.

1. Seven Samurai (1954)

The first film to consider, and perhaps the most well-known, is Seven Samurai.

Filmed in black and white, the story takes place in 16^th century feudal Japan. A village of farmers are attacked by bandits and, as they fear the bandits will come back and steal their harvest, the farmers seek the help of a group of samurai they recruit on the streets.

The recruitment sequence in Seven Samurai is an example of the balance between comic and serious events Kurosawa manages to achieve in this film and throughout much of his career, showcasing his unique sensibilities alongside that of the proud spirit and valour of the samurai (a recurring feature of most Kurosawa works). Only a group of seven samurai, who are selected through a series of tests of their real worth, accept to help the farmers. The story centres first on the recruitment of the samurai, then mostly on the preparations for the looming attack, whilst frantic action sequences are limited to the very end.

Kurosawa’s excellent casting choices here include Toshiro Mifune as Kikuchiyo and Takashi Shimura as Kambei Shimada – both stars of the Japanese screen who act in many of Kurosawa’s films and have thus become popular internationally. Mifune’s charisma and acting skills made Kurosawa notice him when he gave him his first role in Drunken Angel (1948). Here Mifune proves to be a versatile actor, delivering both the most dramatic moments of Seven Samurai and providing comic relief. His performance is worth the price of admission alone.

Seven Samurai’s sequences showing the farmers and the samurai as they chase bandits are the most notable and impressive in terms of techniques used. Kurosawa often resorts to long takes and wipes in the edit, instead of cross cutting. He also prefers long (or medium wide) shots to close ups.

The moral message is delivered by the main characters: in feudal Japan class distinction cannot be overridden and living conditions for Japanese people are extremely brutal and precarious.

The score by Fumio Hayasaka is a successful blend of Japanese and western music – sequences featuring working farmers are set against the backdrop of traditional Japanese instruments and sound, while in battle scenes and dramatic moments the music changes to an epic tone that is more distinctively western.

This unique musical style and Kurosawa’s directing style are to be found, with a few variations, in the films that I am going to mention next, connoting his ever-recognisable impact on each of his works.

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2. Throne of Blood (1957)

The story of Throne of Blood is based on Shakespeare’s “Macbeth” and, as Seven Samurai was, is set in Medieval Japan. It is an adaptation freely inspired by the original play, as the setting and elements of the plot have been adapted to the Japanese society of the time (for example, an evil spirit stands in for the three witches in the play).

Although the film’s composer Masaru Satō incorporated elements of western music, the overall sound, tone and setting are more typically Japanese than in the Shakespearean play, thus helping to differentiate this pre-eminent Japanese story from other adaptations of “Macbeth”.

At the beginning of the film, a Japanese chant echoes in the fog. The same sequence is also repeated at the end, creating a ring composition where the fog functions as an omen – it appears either when some tragic event is about to happen, or before the evil spirit appears.

The local lord Tsuzuki is waiting on news from his loyal generals, Washizu and Miki, who are fighting against traitors. While coming back to the castle, the two lose their way in the thick forest that surrounds it, and they meet a spirit that predicts their future. Washizu will become the lord of the North castle whilst Miki will become the commander of the first fortress. The two men do not believe the spirit’s words, but when the first part of the prophecy becomes true, Washizu, instigated by his wife Asaji, decides to take action. This acts as the trigger point for the tragic events that follow.

Like in Seven Samurai, there are notable acting performances. Seven Samurai’s Mifune, in the role of Washizu, delivers an excellent performance throughout, but is most notable in a sequence of madness towards the end. Takashi Shimura, also cited in Seven Samurai, shines here as Lord Tsuzuki’s advisor Odakura Noriyasu.

Kurosawa uses similar techniques to the ones in Seven Samurai (long, medium wide and full shots) but also many deep focus shots. During dialogues between Washizu and his wife Asaji (Isuzu Yamada), Kurosawa opts for wide shots and different camera angles (mostly Dutch angles and low-angle shots). It is also important to note the use of drums that, like in Seven Samurai, announce a battle.

The moral message here is less hopeful than that in Seven Samurai: although those who sought power eventually perish, the film shows man’s changing and fragile nature when faced with moral dilemmas.

3. Ran (1985)

In contrast with the two films outlined above, Ran is the most pessimistic in terms of message and general tone, conveying a philosophical and mystical approach to life that doesn’t leave any room for optimism but makes men fall into complete despair without any hope for redemption.

Even the good-hearted and religious characters that are spokespeople for a Buddhist way of life do not have a chance to be saved in this egoistical world. In contrast with the director’s other entries in this piece, this film is in colour, the specifically traditional and focused aspects of the black and white pallet brought into a more typically glorious visual presentation that does not fail to disappoint.

The story is set in feudal Japan and it starts with a hunting sequence – featuring the main character Hidetori, played by the famous and talented Tatsuya Nakadai.

After the hunting sequence, the following sequences are filmed in static shots – full and long shots with no use of cross cutting (which again confirms Kurosawa’s preference for these techniques). The story — inspired by Shakespeare’s “King Lear” — is about Hidetori, the old chief of the Ichimonji clan, who wants to leave his power and property to his three sons: Taro, Jiro and Saburo. Jiro’s thirst for power will make him fight against his brothers, leading to tragic consequences.

What makes this film different from the previous two is not only its more pessimistic message and visual presentation, but also some choices in terms of sound and score.

The composer Toru Takemitsu uses sounds and noises from the natural world (for example the wind, the sound of a fire that burns Hidatori’s castle to the ground, birds singing). He also uses silence as a means of communication between the characters and as an auditory backdrop to the characters’ inner thoughts. In Ran, like in Throne of Blood, drums are ever-present, as they are associated with the approaching battle.

As in the previous films mentioned, the cast in Ran is excellent, especially Tatsuya Nakadai’s impressive performance as Hidetori. What perhaps strikes the viewer most about Ran is the seemingly less balanced succession between lack of action on screen and violent, brutal battle sequences (such as the attack of Hidatori’s castle and the battle between Jiro’s army and Saburo’s towards the end of the film). The battle scenes show man’s ruthless nature, as the camera focuses on the dead, thus emphasising the senseless slaughter.

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Finally, all three films share some continuity and differences that make them easily watchable one after the other. They share the epic atmosphere of feudal Japan, showing the interest Kurosawa had for this period of Japanese history. Most importantly, it is interesting to watch how he was able to recreate the atmosphere of that historical period on screen, with beautiful costumes, talented casts, capable and innovative composers, and of course his exceptional directing abilities and skills. For these reasons, there is simply no better place to start with arguably the greatest Japanese filmmaker of all time than with the three movies outlined in this piece; three films that showcase the style and genius of the ever-great Akira Kurosawa.