I was in my third year of university the last time the Sight & Sound Greatest Film of All Time poll was conducted. I'd only just started reading the magazine, and it marked a turning point in my interest in cinema to such an extent that my final major project was a four-page spread designed to imitate its layout, featuring an essay on why Vertigo would be a deserving winner of the poll over Citizen Kane. I wanted this kind of work to be my life, and I remember thinking that if all goes to plan, in ten years' time I’d have established myself as a writer and a critic, and I'd be voting in the next iteration of the poll. That would be the mark of success for me. Next summer, those ten years will have passed and I didn't reach that goal, but somewhere between then and now I left it all behind. I set new targets, found new marks of success, and, frankly, just did other things that interested me more. Hindsight is a wonderful thing, of course, but when I look back I don't think I ever really had it in me to be the writer that I thought I wanted to be. I'm not sure why that is, and it could be for all kinds of reasons, but in the end I don't think a life as a journalist ever really suited me. Besides, I'm much more of a tourist than a tour guide, anyway.
As far as cinema goes, I'm not sure whether this has been an exceptionally good year or a comparatively good one, but I've enjoyed many of the new films that I've seen. In a brief but welcome return to some kind of normality I made it to a few festivals around the UK, but aside from a wonderful edition of Sheffield DocFest they didn't really scratch the itch of discovery that I've been craving. Of my favourite films of the year only three were unknown quantities, and a couple of others would probably have made the list if I'd made it sight unseen a year ago. It's a frustrating reality of the covid-era, I suppose, that so much seems to happen elsewhere. Festivals are more reliant on local attendees than ever, and with travel restrictions and health concerns limiting programming capacity for financial reasons, there seems to be less and less space for risk-taking. I hope the films that I haven't been able to see, like Haruhara-san's Recorder, Zeros and Ones, The Girl and The Spider, and The Story of My Wife, aren't absent from the UK for long. The year feels incomplete without having seen them or a dozen others like them.
Instead, I went looking for a sense of discovery elsewhere with my scattershot home viewing, and thankfully the only real obstacle here is in how willing I am to take the time to search for things. I filled in a few blind-spots, which is always a good use of time, and found some great work from filmmakers like Sylvia Chang, Bill Forsyth, Nicole Holofcener and Ryōsuke Hashiguchi, to name a few. I also dug further into a few incomplete areas of interest, which is usually just as rewarding as finding something new. I watched the last few Claire Denis films that I hadn't seen, caught up with the majority of Terence Fisher's Frankenstein films over Halloween, and spent a lot of time with the incredible work of Dario Argento. I'd seen Suspiria, of course, and Deep Red, but very little else, so watching films as uniquely strange as Opera, The Stendhal Syndrome, and The Card Player for the first time was a particularly energising experience. And finally, back in January I set myself the arbitrary but broadly quite useful goal of watching fifty-two films directed by women over the course of the year. I'm very aware that my interest in cinema has historically skewed towards a male-dominated kind of auteurism, so making an effort to shift away from that, even in a small way, felt like a helpful thing to do. I'll probably do it again next year.
So all in all, a year of great riches and great frustrations. I like to use these annual write-ups as a way of unearthing a thread that loosely links everything together, but I'm not sure I can find one this year. There's been a lot of rebuilding, I think, be it a life or a reputation, a relationship or a career; but equally a lot of destruction. A lot of dead ends and diversions, escape attempts and homecomings. A lot of confusion. It's appropriate, then, that of all the films I watched for the first time, it was Charlie Chaplin's Limelight, a staggeringly direct film about finding a reason to fight through despondency, that really took hold of me. In the absence of a defining thread, perhaps this film's closing gesture, a simple pull-back that moves mournfully away from death and ecstatically towards life, is the most fitting image from another challenging year. It's going to be a long winter. All we can do is keep dancing.
In alphabetical order:
A River Runs, Turns, Erases, Replaces | Zhu Shengze
Drive My Car | Ryūsuke Hamaguchi
France | Bruno Dumont
Friends and Strangers | James Vaughan
Introduction / In Front of Your Face | Hong Sang-soo
The Last Duel | Ridley Scott
Petite Maman | Céline Sciamma
The Power of The Dog | Jane Campion
West Side Story | Steven Spielberg
What Do We See When We Look At The Sky? | Alexandre Koberidze
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I've not written very much in 2021. I don't know what it was about these films in particular that made me write about them, however briefly, but I'm glad they inspired something in me. Here are some links in case you missed them.
1) On lies and brittle masculinity in Brian De Palma’s Body Double
2) On the colour of jumpers in Bill Forsyth’s Housekeeping
3) On visual freedom in Claire Denis’s I Can’t Sleep
4) On broken trust and dead friendships in Sidney Lumet’s Prince of the City
5) And on a doomed picture of happiness in Michael Cimino’s The Deer Hunter
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A strong selection of new-to-me viewings, I think, if not a particularly adventurous one. I don't know what next year will bring, but I’m hoping to get out of my comfort zone a little bit.
Limelight | Charlie Chaplin, 1952
Eight Hours Don’t Make A Day | Rainer Werner Fassbinder, 1972
Local Hero | Bill Forsyth, 1983
Choose Me | Alan Rudolph, 1984
Eight Hours Don’t Make A Day | Rainer Werner Fassbinder, 1972
Local Hero | Bill Forsyth, 1983
Choose Me | Alan Rudolph, 1984
Opera | Dario Argento, 1987
Miracle Mile | Steve De Jarnatt, 1988
An Angel At My Table | Jane Campion, 1990
The Lovers on The Bridge | Leos Carax, 1991
Tempting Heart | Sylvia Chang, 1999
Hush! | Ryōsuke Hashiguchi, 2001
An Angel At My Table | Jane Campion, 1990
The Lovers on The Bridge | Leos Carax, 1991
Tempting Heart | Sylvia Chang, 1999
Hush! | Ryōsuke Hashiguchi, 2001
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I never used to pay very much attention to music, but now that I find myself WFH more often than not I’m far more engaged than I used to be. I’ve been spending more and more time in the NTS Radio archives, and reading blogs like Listen To This or newsletters like Tone Glow; all of which offer avenues of exploration that feel exciting and brand new to me. It’s nice to know that the fires of curiosity are still burning, and it’s liberating to just give myself over to curation and pull the threads of whatever sounds good to me. I feel like I’m at the tip of an iceberg. Please tell me what you’re listening to. Some discoveries:
The Pavilion of Dreams | Harold Budd, 1978
Odyshape | The Raincoats, 1981
Complete Discography | Moss Icon, 1988-1994
Hats | The Blue Nile, 1989
Dreamland | Aztec Camera, 1993
Personal Best | Team Dresch, 1995
Walking Wounded | Everything But The Girl, 1996
Tidal | Fiona Apple, 1996
How It Feels To Be Something On | Sunny Day Real Estate, 1998
Aaliyah | Aaliyah, 2001
As for new music, I liked albums by Low and Parannoul, Dean Blunt and Kanye West, Really From and MIKE, but beyond that I spent more time looking back than keeping up. I think all of these albums were featured quite prominently on Pitchfork at some point or another. I’m hoping my listening will be more interesting next year.
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Raheem Sterling's goal against Germany, and Luke Shaw's goal against Italy in Euro 2020. Entering dreamland. The Gareth Southgate era of English football is perhaps the most joyous we’ve ever seen. It's certainly a lot more than this country deserves.
All the best for 2022.