Category: Film

Film by Ezekiel Yu
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A still from Hirokazu Kore-eda's "Monster" (2023), depicting a man with his head bowed in front of a blurred crowd, as reviewed by poet and critic Ezekiel Yu for the automachination literary magazine.

Extinguishing Sin: On Hirokazu Koreeda’s “Monster” (2023)

Hirokazu Koreeda’s films reap many rewards, if one is willing to take them at their own pace. The comparisons to Yasujiro Ozu are somewhat tired but also fitting—and much to the later Japanese filmmaker’s credit. His Monster (or Kaibutsu, in the original Japanese) is no different, though perhaps the more salient comparison would be to Akira Kurosawa’s Rashomon, since both films fold differing perspectives over the same central event in order to gradually complexify both the story as well as the viewer’s initial impressions.

Monster is a masterclass in playing with the viewer’s expectations in this regard; from its very title, and from the rising action of the plot, one is primed to expect something sinister at work, as the son of single mother Saori Mugino (Sakura Ando), Minato, begins to exhibit strange behavior at home. He becomes withdrawn, and refers to himself as a “pig brain in a human body” and talks about being reborn in ways that seem to indicate suicidal ideation. After she finds him wandering through a dark tunnel, singing to himself, long after he was supposed to be back home from school, he flings himself out of the car on the drive back. An emergency MRI yields no cognitive abnormalities—what exactly is wrong with young Minato? […]

Film by Waqas Jani
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A still from Satyajit Ray's film "Devi," as reviewed by rural Pakistani poet and critic Waqas Jani, depicting the would-be goddess (Sharmila Tagore) being worshipped as a devi.

Idolatry of the Fragile: on Satyajit Ray’s “Devi” (The Goddess)

There is a brief scene in the string of scenes that open Satyajit Ray’s Devi. In it, the character of Umparasad (Soumitra Chatterjee) reacts with shock to what is likely an animal being slaughtered as a sacrifice at Durga Puja. Prior to this scene none of the characters is ascribed any individuation, and yet Umparasad is lent this highlight, most likely as his weakness, for later in the story we learn his weak constitution as a man, and how because of it he fails to prevent a tragedy that befalls his family and wife Doyamoyeee (Sharmila Tagore).

Now, it would not be fair to lay all the blame on Umparasad’s shoulders, as there are multiple factors that lead to denouement of Devi, but his culpability prevails. The fact that it has gotten little attention from the critics once again showcases how deeper aspects of Ray’s films have been overlooked for their more overt counterparts, since Devi’s premise, too, lends itself well to the loud debates of its native land. […]

Film by Ezekiel Yu
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A still from Bart Layton's "Crime 101," with Mark Ruffalo staring out of a car window, as reviewed by poet and film critic Ezekiel Yu for the automachination.com literary magazine.

Solid Noir: On Bart Layton’s “Crime 101” (2026)

It’s neat how just a few simple things, if done sufficiently, make for absorbing cinema: 1) well-drawn characters with understandable motivations, 2) an eye for style, with particular attention to the art—the music, really—of editing, and 3) a point of view, or points of view, of the world that any mature individual can recognize as having come from a lived perspective, i.e. the filmmakers respect the fact that their audiences are sufficiently experienced with both art and life to not be demeaned to with puerile sloganeering.

I did not mention any specific kind of style—lavish or minimalist, snappy or static, etc.—nor did I claim that the characters have to be all that original or of extraordinary depth; and it is not necessary for the filmmaker’s POV to introduce some groundbreaking worldview(s) capable of massive societal shift. Cinema, after all, is just as much a craft as it is a result of subjective expression, and the elements identified above are tried-and-true methods, across a variety of genres, of involving a viewer in one’s chosen narrative.

Bart Layton’s Crime 101, in spite of its blasé title, is just that sort of cinema. It is also a solid example of “formula” done right. While most feature films follow at least some type of convention, narrative predictability, though it creates a certain ceiling, is also just as much an invitation to innovate as it is to stultify. Crime 101 slants more toward the former than the latter, papering over its inevitable series of plot-propelling implausibilities, and frillier adherences to genre cliche, with a lean-and-clean, almost throwback, approach that satisfies the engaged viewer with sheer pleasure of technique, as well as empathetic performances by a cast of seasoned industry veterans. […]

Film by Jessica Schneider
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A still from Robert Bresson's "Four Nights of a Dreamer," after Dostoevsky's "White Nights," depicting Guillaume des Forêts behind a rainy window. It is being reviewed by Jessica Schneider for the automachination literary magazine.

In Love with Longing: Robert Bresson’s “Four Nights of a Dreamer” (1971)

When one thinks of longing, time moves slowly. Our movements are full of hesitation and second-guesses, as we play and replay scenes within our minds. The actual shared time together might have been extremely short in duration, moments that, when reflected upon years later, are often underwhelming when viewed objectively. Case in point: Can you really know anyone that you’ve only been with very briefly? Granted, Linklater made a trilogy of films about this very thing, and sometimes it works out.

However, mostly what happens is that the fantasy never develops, and so we become addicted to the longing itself. (We think if only the fantasy comes true, then all will be wonderful.) Robert Bresson’s Four Nights of a Dreamer explores this theme, as the film is not about love (is it ever?) but rather longing. (Jane Campion also distills this well in Bright Star.) The film, adapted from Dostoyevsky’s short story White Nights, is admittedly not one of the Russian writer’s better works. Bresson, however, manages to take the story’s seed and successfully embellish it further, making it more an existential examination than emotional. […]

Film by Ezekiel Yu
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A scene from Francis Ford Coppola's "Megadoc," as reviewed by poet/critic Zeke Yu for the automachination literary magazine, depicting the director looking up with his hands in the air, against the soft orange glow of a lamp and home library.

Non sum qualis eram: on Francis Ford Coppola’s “Megadoc” (2025)

Watching Francis Ford Coppola’s Megalopolis (2024) was a strange experience. On the one hand, to see one of America’s greatest directors still at work, flourishing a mostly self-financed, original work of art to the public was genuinely encouraging. On the other hand, witnessing such an ungainly, out-of-step vision progress to its bizarre conclusion seemed also a reminder of how, generally speaking, artists tend to lose expressive power as they age, and that not every personal passion project is necessarily worth sharing with the world, prior filmography be damned.

However, when you’ve directed The Godfather Trilogy, The Conversation, and Apocalypse Now, the only tangible difficulties in the way of getting your movie produced are, by and large, logistical. That is not to say that Megalopolis had an easy development process: Coppola conceived of the story in the 70s and, after casting switch-ups, complicated financing arrangements, and the working-out of his own bugbears regarding the project, began legitimate principal photography in 2022! But that is to say, if you are Francis Ford Coppola, if you want to get a movie made, odds are it will get made—so most of the gushing about how incredible it was, circa the 2024 premiere of Megalopolis, that a director of his age and reputation released a highly idiosyncratic, genre-defying movie in this world of shameless IP-regurgitation seemed a tad overdone. After all, most aspiring artists have some kind of idiosyncratic vision they want to put out, but most aspiring artists don’t also own multi-million dollar wine and resort companies to fall back on if major studios reject your proposals. […]

Film by Ezekiel Yu
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A still from Emerald Fennell's "Wuthering Heights," depicting Heathcliff and Catherine (Margot Robbie, Jacob Elordi), in an embrace during a cloudy sunset at sea. It is being reviewed by film critic Ezekiel Yu for automachination literary magazine.

Blundering Brontë: on Emerald Fennell’s “Wuthering Heights” (2026)

When I first read Wuthering Heights last year, though I could acknowledge and even admire its more forward-thinking aspects, I remained generally unmoved by the melodrama, propelled as it is by stupidity and sensationalized behavior/sentiments. These are, of course, staples of the Gothic Romance, and how Emily Brontë muffles the hysteria by concealing the meat of her story underneath a more sane (albeit “unreliable”) narrative layer assuredly plays a part in why it has retained the status of a classic almost two centuries after its publication; although it is certainly the plot’s brooding avenger Heathcliff and his doomed romance with Catherine Earnshaw, not clever literary technique, that most strongly lives on in public imagination.

Such is why most film and TV adaptations excise the original enfolding narrative and mainly focus on the Heathcliff/Catherine dynamic, plus the two’s involvement with the neighboring Linton Family; and ending the story when Catherine dies, heartbroken, as her childhood love rages at their ill-starred fate. It’s a smart choice for the sake of efficiency (stuffing an elaborately plotted novel such as Wuthering Heights into the confines of a feature-length production requires significant cutting anyway) but, as a result, leaves the audience with a sopping pile of melodrama undamped by the source material’s conceit of a more or less neutral POV being narrated to and reacting with reserved distress at the goings-on. […]

Film by Ezekiel Yu
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Jessie Buckley and Paul Mescal standing in a forest in Chloe Zhao's "Hamnet", as reviewed by poet and film critic Ezekiel Yu for the automachination literary magazine.

Passion’s Tatters: Reviewing Chloé Zhao’s “Hamnet” (2025)

There is a legend that Johann Sebastian Bach’s sublime Chaconne, in his “Partita No. 2 in D Minor for Solo Violin”, was composed as a memorial to his first wife, Maria Barbara, who unexpectedly passed while Bach was away on a two-month work trip. It is based mostly on apocryphal evidence, and bolstered by certain musicological analyses pointing to salient themes/motifs common to that style of music; but really the main appeal of this theory is that it makes sense, to our contemporary sensibilities, that a work of such staggeringly intense emotive power could only come from a place of commensurate emotional intensity in the artist responsible for its creation.

Of course, there’s no solid reason to believe that this really was the case. Bach, in particular, actually seemed to be among the more quotidian of the canonical Western composers, as much of what has been passed down to posterity regarding his personal life consists of rather workaday details typical of any diligent craftsman, extraordinarily prolific though he was: Concerns over employment, instrumentation, the skills (or lack thereof) of the musicians available to him, etc. Much of this also arrives to us secondhand, from the reports of his colleagues and progeny—whoever Bach was to himself, in his own words, we have very little idea of.

But after Bach came Romanticism, and the notion of a composer producing a tour de force out of the welter of his deep mourning simply strikes the modern art lover as perfectly natural; and doubly so if such a work bears the sort of solemn profundity that the last movement of the Second Partita does. Beethoven, after all, had his Immortal Beloved—why shouldn’t his Baroque predecessor have something like that, too? Never mind that the man seemed to whip up masterpieces at the drop of a hat—his duties as Thomaskantor at Leipzig obligated him to compose a new cantata every week—or that the great artists end up creating their major works out of a wide range of inspirations and emotional contexts. His wife died, and he was not there to witness her death. Hence: Chaconne. […]

Film by Ezekiel Yu
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A shot from Sam Raimi's "Send Help," depicting Rachel McAdams and Dylan O'Brien washed up on a beach, where she holds a knife pointed towards him. The film is being reviewed by Ezekiel Yu for the automachination literary magazine.

Role Reversal: Reviewing Sam Raimi’s “Send Help” (2026)

Your boss is not your friend.

You might get along with them, may even like them to a certain extent, but make no mistake: They exist on a higher plane. Their priorities differ from yours. Crack jokes with them all you want, or go bowling with them at the End of Year function, or what have you. None of that changes the fact that you are an underling. Say one wrong thing—or a few wrong things, in an untimely sequence—and all it takes is a snap of their fingers, an obligatory sit-down with HR, and you’re back on the job hunt, desperately peddling your employment profile in the virtual cold.

I’ve had some bad bosses (the micro-managing, drug-addicted kind). I’ve also worked under a few that I got along with swimmingly. Again, all more or less inconsequential: They are there to tell you what to do, and you are there to do what they tell you to do. Simple as that. Under the current socioeconomic regime, this is as hard-baked a commandment in one’s working life as the Laws of Thermodynamics are in physics. Resist these constraints at your own peril.

SEND HELP’s Bradley Preston isn’t just a bad boss. He’s an insufferable one.