By 2010 onwards, a new tradition of black comedy had been established in British cinema. Edgar Wright's famed 'Cornetto Trilogy' (Shaun of the Dead, Hot Fuzz and The World's End, 2004-2013) arguably started the trend, parodying a zombified British work force and public listlessness. At the same time, horror auteur Christopher Smith made the London Underground something to fear in Creep (2004) and team trips to be avoided with his gory follow up, Severance (2006), in which slacker employee Danny Dyer outsmarts vengeful poachers hunting down his co-workers in the Hungarian mountains. Even the hitmen-turned-tourists of Martin McDonagh's In Bruges (2008) are comic relief within the criminal underworld. Poking fun at corporate work culture and British mannerisms, these types of black comedies also paved the way for a second folk horror revival, and it was only a matter of time before superstition and grievances seeped out of the countryside and into familiar haunts. 

A stolen dog, unfortunately placed knitting needles and murder await us in the first of our horror film season, Ben Wheatley's third feature, Sightseers (2012). Although Wheatley debuted with the rat-in the-family crime Down Terrace in 2009, he's best known for the chilling war trauma/folk horror hybrid Kill List in 2011 and the experimental, 17th-century A Field in England in 2013. You'll find Irish master of fear Michael Smiley and Inside No.9's Reece Shearsmith in several of them, yet it would be a grave (as we'll learn in Sightseers) mistake to underestimate his female partners in crime, like wife Amy Jupe, who wrote Kill List and A Field in England (here, she edited). Going slightly off the beaten track, that minor ice-cream girl in Hot Fuzz and a British comedian were given greater creative reign in Sightseers, winning Best Screenplay at the British Independent Film Awards that year.

Less buddy film, more toxic relationship, writer and star Alice Lowe is Tina, half of the seemingly mediocre couple that fellow co-writer Steve Oram completes as boyfriend Steve. Sexually inhibited, emotionally detached and undermined by her needy mother Carol (Eileen Davies, who earnt a BIFA nomination for her unhealthy appetite for disaster), Steve has planned a road trip up North that Tina responds to with all the excitement of a teenage girl's first holiday away from her parents. Even before the chaos ensues, there's a knowingly British sense of humour in their expectations- the academic and fully kitted out Steve hoping to pen a caravanning book; keen knitter Tina fashioning herself risqué lingerie for a sex-filled getaway. Lowe even adopts a nervous lisp and nears wobbly meltdowns as Tina, making her endearingly juvenile and laughably pitiful. Oram, meanwhile, hardly disguises Steve's psychopathy and cunningness as he starts killing undesirable tourists- a sly caravan manoeuvre to get back at a litter bug; bludgeoning an environmentalist whom Tina maliciously accuses of rape. The matter-of-factness in which Tina and Steve justify their kills makes this particularly British horror not only palatable for the more squeamish, but effortlessly funny, too. Although it's Steve who kills first, Tina's lying is so outrageous, her behaviour so impulsive, that we never hold her to the same moral accountability. She's the ultimate anti-heroine.

On that note, there's something else here that is unsettling. Allowing himself to be kissed by a bride to-be in Tina's presence and urging her into committing a final act of love (for him, of course), Steve isn't a good egg even before the killing spree. Bloody as it might have been to get there, in the end Sightseers could be read as a feminist tale, albeit extreme. This nicely explains Lowe's 2016 horror Prevenge, where a pregnant woman commits bloody rampage because her foetus supposedly tells her to do so (admirably, Lowe wrote, directed and starred in this whilst pregnant herself. How's that for treating pregnant women as if they're incapacitated?). Revealing more about Steve's character is his instant dislike of couple Ian and Janice (Monica Dolan, another Black Mirror alumni). With a sparkling caravan and a pampered pet, they represent the most tediously entitled of holiday makers. In this way, Wheatley and his collaborators know exactly what kind of people we fantasize about bumping off and make it real in the bleak, British daylight. Much as one recoils at the gory spilled entrails left in their tracks, in the safe confines of black comedy we're free to laugh and even relate to it. As Johnathan Hatful explains, Wheatley " keeps coming back to very British nightmares" in his work, with an 'eviscerating take on social hierarchy and class structure" that has permeated his recent foray into science fiction, 2021's In the Earth and 2025's Bulk. Writing about British horror post 1970, James Rowe also notes the thematic 'perversions of rational normality' that emerged after the decline of Gothic horror, just when folk horror took off.

Cleverly, Sightseers also both fits into and eschews the traditional folk horror model of rural isolation. Wheatley's regular cinematographer Laurie Rose pays homage to the hand-held camera realism of independent horror cinema pre 2000s, especially the cramped space of Tina's bedroom and caravan interior. Sightseers revels in in both the mundane and beautiful, recalling Summerisle Island in Robin Hardy's 1973 classic The Wickerman whilst making car parks and motorways sinister, too. Where folk horror locations are usually vague, shooting in recognisable locations (i.e. Yorkshire's Ribbledale Viaduct) gives Sightseers a certain legitimacy. I like folk horror academic Howard David Ingham's interpretation of Wheatley's locations, their very banality inspiring " the strange, the prosaic and the uncanny... all espouse the business of death as [an] inescapable sacrament of a bleak paganism". In a reverse of how 2008's Eden Lake moved a gang of teenage killers into the woods, Sightseers places its folk horror antagonists in dull civilisation.

Our film programmer, Charlie, thought Sightseers would honour the Barn's rurality and our mix of cinematic tastes (comedy; himself and Luke, horror; yours truly). It's a more daring choice for us, less revered than our previous films, but sure to put you into Halloween mode and raise a laugh at our collective British psyche- murderous impulses aside.

References
Ingham, Howard. D, 2018. We Don’t Go Back: A Watcher’s Guide to Folk Horror. Room 207 Press. Hatful, Jonathan, 2025. ‘Inside the mind of Ben Wheatley’. Science + Media Museum. Rose, James, 2009. Beyond Hammer: British Horror Cinema since 1970. Liverpool University Press. 

​Never destined for true Americanization, Japanese films blossomed in their 1950s 'Golden Age'. Whilst growth for the cinephile is appreciating that Bollywood is just as profitable as its American counterpoint, learning about Nollywood (Nigeria's answer), or visiting movements like the French New Wave when you've grown up on a diet of mainstream fare, the likes of Studio Ghibli and Tokyo's October-November film festival has put Japanese cinema on the global film industry pedestal. But what of the lost era of cinema? Of all the films we've screened so far, none better capture an iconic performance, cinematography or message than September's first choice, Japanese director Akira Kurosawa's Ikiru (1952).

From the retrospective 4/4 stars of Roger Ebert, a New York Times review in 1960 (only eight years later did Ikiru enjoy an American release) that almost granted it title of 'the best' in a run of major post-war Japanese films; to BFI's Matthew Thrift arguing that 1950s Japan was "the greatest single decade for a national cinema" (2015), critics have been unified by Ikiru for over 70 years. Kurosawa was heralded for his samurai films, with 1950's Roshomon questioning the various testimonies of a dual murder-rape (in Ikiru, it is thankfully the differing perspectives of Wantanbe's morality by his acquaintances) and 1954's Seven Samurai, inspiring the battle scenes of the Western film. As in 1948's Drunken Angel, Ikiru is faithful towards the Japanese gendaigeki genre (contemporary dramas), whereas his later works in the 50's, the jidaigeki (period dramas) might explain the derision of other filmmakers towards his adopting western film aesthetics of spectacle and colour. Refused funding by Japanese production companies yet wanting to control much of the filmmaking process- Kurosawa was, admirably, hands on- it was inevitable that financial help from abroad would shape his work. One almost gets the sense that Kurosawa tried to appeal to too many sensibilities at once- his audience of the 50's, speaking to Japan's post-war youth; audiences in America hungry for literary adaptations, and the older Japanese demographic who finally saw their plight represented in Wantanbe.

Translated, Ikiru is 'To Live', a mission that is far more philosophical and ambiguous than the goal orientation of Classical Hollywood narratives. This is an inimitable film, although Japanese British novelist and screenwriter Kazuo Ishiguro tried in earnest with the Bill Nighy starring adaptation Living in 2022. Showing just how strong the bond between actor and director can be, Takashi Shimura acted in 21 of Kurosawa's films, Ikiru being the third. In a role that testifies to the nature of private suffering, Shimura is studious businessman Kanji Wantanbe who, unbeknownst to him, has a tumour thriving in the disconnect between his body and mind. Wantanbe's fate is open to interpretation, just the belief he will die (thanks, in no small part, to an oversharing patient in the waiting room) and the grind of Japanese bureaucracy already spelling the end. As the omnipresent narrator tells us from the start, this is a man whose been 'dead for 25 years' in his monotonous public sector job, widowed and distanced from married son Mitsuo (Nobuo Kaneko). An early character study, the audience follows Wantanbe as he tries to come to terms with his diagnosis and experience the hedonic pleasures of Tokyo city before his time is up.

Death is the great leveler, and Ikiru is open in its condemnation of how traditional Japanese values of productivity, honour and even family obscure individual meaning. "It's here rather than my stomach" Wantanbe confides as he rubs his chest, that the malaise is. The cinematography, rather than melodramatic gestures, achieves much of the film's pathos- seamlessly integrated flashbacks to his wife's funeral, with relatives urging him to remarry; a closing shot of achievement certificates hung on the wall that fades out to Wantanbe's quiet sobbing; the glass doors and curtains of the Minka (house) isolating father and son. A true innovator, Kurosawa is credited for the 'screen wipe' film technique. In Ikiru, it stands for the throwaway irresponsibility in which Wantanbe's colleagues dismiss local women lobbying for a children's playground, each point-of-view shot referring them onto another department. It's also interesting to note how Ikiru intentionally changes our perception of Wantanbe's life, with Japanese film academic Donald Richie suggesting that Kurosawa " [used] all cinematic techniques to make certain that we become absolutely convinced of this reality". Considering this, the film's second half of Wantanbe's legacy and the truths revealed takes on greater cinematic importance- even if it felt 'maundering' for that New York Times critic.

Of course, how could one forget the joint second hero of Ikiru, Wantanbe's perky female colleague Toyo (Miki Odagiri)? It's commendable that the few women in this film are autonomous, from the playground mothers helping a frail Wantanbe stand to their sincere grief next to the false pretenses of his male associates (bar one, who does speak up). However, Toyo is the embodiment of joyful living, her sentiment inspiring Wantanbe to push the playground construction through. Unsure where to spend his money, she and Wantanbe enjoy pastimes like the arcade, cinema and ice-skating. Thrift is perhaps harsh when he describes Ikiru as a "Scrooge-like awakening" because one has the sense that Wantanbe has always been kind, if ineffectual. Spotting Toyo's laddered tights, he immediately takes her to buy new ones. It's their new friendship that makes Wantanbe notice the loving couple in a restaurant, and the happiness that her new job of making white toy rabbits gives her. We also notice that she's completely absent in the film's latter half. Perhaps the grief, or the hypocrisy of her old colleagues, was too much- or she simply served her purpose in Wantanbe's story.

You might only know Ikiru from the classic film poster, that of Wantanbe peacefully swinging alone in the snow. Or, like our film programmer Luke, you're an avid Kurosawa fan and would attest to his significance in post-war cinema. Melancholic yet pure, a time capsule of Japan; we look forward to welcoming in the autumn film season with this masterpiece.

References:
Image courtesy of The Cinematheque 
Richie, Donald, 2004. 'Ikiru'. Criterion Current, originally published in The Films of Akira Kurosawa, 1996 by University California Press.
Crowther, Bosley, 1960. 'Screen: Drama Imported From Japan: 'Ikiru' Has Premiere at the Little Carnegie Shimura Stars as Petty Government Aide'.
​The New York Times. Thrift, Matthew, 2024. ' 10 great Japanese films of the 1950s', British Film Institute.

(contains references to suicide, so please read with care)

It feels bittersweet to review Harold and Maude (1971), a film about seizing all the joy in life, after the passing of the then 20-something Bud Cort in February. Cast in prominent hits by Rob Altman (M.A.S.H and Brewster McCloud, both 1970), the budding character actor soon grabbed the attention of fellow New Hollywood director Hal Ashby, whose filmography epitomized the counterculture of the 1960's and 70's. Folk musician Cat Stevens' soundtrack, an early example of its kind, is synonymous with the film's message of free love and earthliness. At 56, this surprisingly fresh black comedy-romance has far surpassed its poor beginnings at the box office, securing a place in the National Film Registry (films deemed worthy of preservation) in 1997. A gentle tale of an elderly woman befriending a solitary drifter, why the controversy, given the explicit content of films since? Or was Harold and Maude just waiting to find a more open audience, like ours?

Earning 23rd place in the BFI's 'Greatest Films of all Time' list, Jacques Tati's Playtime (1967) is a bold departure from the ambling Frenchman of his previous hits, 1958's Mon Uncle and 1953's Les Vancances de Monsieur Hulot/ Monsieur Hulot's Holiday. The third of Tati's films in which he both directs and plays the accident-prone Mr. Hulot - as recognizable with his cap and pipe as the outline of Alfred Hitchcock- Playtime is a sleek and meticulously crafted satirical piece on the modernity fast approaching the 1970's. Yet, despite appreciation for Hulot's character and the critical appraisal of Playtime in later years, this would be a production that almost bankrupted Tati as the most expensive French film made by that period. It's this scale of ambition, risk and occasionally enigmatic quality of the film that brings us to review it almost 60 years on.

As per Tati's style, we get the observational comedy of following Mr Hulot through the impersonal architecture, consumer goods and business etiquette. Just as his fellow Francophile Agnes Varda achieved with Cleo from 5-7 in 1952, the time frame of a single day in Paris lends a helpful form to Playtime's loosely arranged, almost secondary plot. In the first of six different locations, 'The Airport' quickly replaces workers (a midwife briskly sweeping by with a wailing infant, a befuddled and lost-looking cleaner, a photographer) with a horde of American tourists. Soon arriving, of course, is Hulot, instantly recognizable for his wide-stepped gait and flash of patterned socks in the mass of business grey and high fashion/Jacqueline Kennedy style of the time. Just as in his other movies, incidental friendships come about- the German salesman of a 'silently slamming' door from the 'Trade Exhibition'; Barbara, the more free-spirited young woman drifting away from the ladies tourist group and, in the chaotic 'Royal Garden' cut of a fine dining restaurant, the ostentatious generosity of an American businessman getting the rounds. Hulot's momentary appearances, rather than his usual centrality of disaster, might owe for the film's cooler reception upon release. As Criterion critic Kent Jones pointed out, Playtime was Tati "inching his way towards a new kind of film...that would be about "everybody" "*. One wonders if this amicable intention distracted from what made Mr. Hulot such an enduring figure in comedy- his aloof and genuine distinction from everybody else.

But where the stardom of Mr. Hulot is lacking, Tati's signature creative sound design makes up for it. Alongside the visual gags, it's a key part of any Tati feature. Contemporary French filmmaker Sylvain Chomet honored his style of ambient, expressionistic noise instead of dialogue in the quirky 2003 animation The Triplets of Belleville. In 2010, Chomet even based The Illusionist on an undeveloped Tati script, so influential has Tati been across comedy cinema. In Playtime, Tati makes full use of the gadgets and vehicles of the 60's consumerist boom via synchronized sound. As cars honk in the street, the neon signage of the restaurant flickers back to life. Aptly named 'The Carousel of Cars', a girl hitching a motorbike ride raises and lowers herself as you might perch on the side of a merry-go-round horse (or chicken, if you too were one of those children not wishing it to feel left out). There's a pleasing order in noticing how the clank of parting meter change jolts things back into action. Living up to his democratic aims, of members Tati's non-professional cast also create their own sound effects, like the young men whistling to make the window glass-fitters 'dance'. Even if Tati felt disillusioned with both Mr. Hulot and the new Paris before embarking on this film, the playful audio certainly doesn't reflect it.

Compared to the picturesque commune of his 1949 debut feature, Jour de fete (The Big Day), or even childminding in the modern Parisian suburbs as Mon Uncle (1958) that Hulot's lone comic gags feel less performative and more a real bewilderment with these stark buildings and electrical gadgets. There's not a bicycle in sight in Andreas Winding's cinematography, whose unflinching wide shots of the mid-century modern architecture make where to look confusing for us, too. A made-for-film set, ‘Tativille' saw the director fully realize the alienating effects of technology, from the glass cages of waiting rooms to steely office blocks that cordon off all human interaction. The apartment scene (shot entirely from outside) had no need for commentary on how normalized social TV watching had become, either. So all encompassing are these windows, high-rises and cars that perhaps only the most devoted Tati fans will appreciate Mr. Hulot's brief comic relief. The Royal Garden's disastrous opening night feels crammed full of typical slapstick gags out of necessity instead of coincidence, as if to counteract the meandering time it took to get there.

Thankfully, the clinical aspect of the production design never obscures the classically 'French' elements. Parisian landmarks are briefly glimpsed through a clever angling of windows (and money-saving photographs to emulate the real thing), their momentariness speaking to Tati's fear of losing the old Paris forever. And he's not alone- Barbara repeatedly tries to photograph an elderly flower seller, only for pedestrians to block or interrupt the shot. In the end, it's her crossing paths with Mr. Hulot (and the coincidental flash of orange flowers with a passer-by's shirt) that helps her capture that part of France. Other markers of French culture- Citroen vans, the attentive preparation of a dish, a heaving local store- almost balance out the mostly industrial tone, whilst the new generation of Mods and different languages heard throughout the film even celebrates France's openness to diversity. That is surely something that the congenial Mr. Hulot would approve of.

Jones, Kent, 2001. 'Playtime', The Criterion Collection. https://www.criterion.com/current/posts/115 playtime?srsltid=AfmBOoqMzXBlZyZ_5mvdF8Ld8E-F5BOxFHt9io30VTxrnnluSjAXfbWY

A Sudden Glimpse to Deeper Things- film review With a recent cohort of female painters and printmakers exhibiting their work at the Barns, it's fitting that our May film should be A Sudden Glimpse to Deeper Things (2024). From the passionate documentarian Mark Cousins- with 14–15-hour long homages to filmmakers on his CV- this more cinema-friendly piece brings to life the story of Scottish artist Wilhelmina Barns-Graham, a pivotal yet underappreciated figure in British modernist art. Again, this screening is of especial interest to the Barns community as Matilda Heydon (curator of the current Mary Webb exhibition) is archivist for the WBG Trust in Edinburgh. Proving what documentary can do, and giving Barns-Graham the exposure she deserves, this is a film to be interpreted as both fact and art.

A powerful yet charmingly intimate narration by Cousins himself sets the ground for his investigation into Barns-Graham's obscurity. He uses the poetic documentary form, where abstract images and cinematography take place over 'the truth' or a filmmaker's argument, to situate us within Barns-Graham's life. A series of still photographs of an elderly, bespectacled woman clambering over rock pools and smiling good-heartedly for a presumed holiday shot invite assumptions about what kind of person this is. So at odds with the youthful Barns-Graham looking straight at the camera, the film's recurring image, that it feels like a confronting exercise in ageism and sexism, those obstacles that female creatives (in any field) know well. Not letting this unfortunate fact overshadow his project, Cousins instead creates an archive of Barns-Graham, drawing surprising comparisons to photography, film and even our relationships. A dire memory of her father welding a whip at the dining table (created through a period film clip) suggests that gender was one battle and art her resilience. To recreate her move from Scotland to Cornwall as an art student, Cousins shoots from within a moving train. He even learns to see the world as she did, joining shots of unrelated objects in the way that Barns-Graham found unity, reminding me of the Soviet innovation of film montage (creating meaning through editing). With editor Timo Langer, raw, unedited footage of the public making their way around the St Ives coast transform into the pastel beach scenes of Barns-Graham's paintings.

​Image courtesy of the BFI. 

​Key to Barns-Graham's work was her synesthesia, whereby one sensory experience triggers another. In film studies, we learnt about this through colour- the universal association of danger with red, blue with sadness for instance. Barns-Graham's interpretation of the natural world found order in chaos, symmetry in nature and associations in pattern. For the mathematics averse (yours truly), animation is a welcome feature of the documentary. The rust squares of 1964's 'Cinders' shuffle across the screen, whereas granite lines recreate works like 1978's 'Glacier Fields' in front of our eyes. Through the rubble, as you might say, of orderly patterns of brick and square shapes emerged her defining fascination with glacial landscapes. The name of the film itself is her reflection upon seeing Grindelwald's Alps in the 40's (if there's one thing missing from this gender-informed film, it's more about her travels across Italy in the following years), marking the point Wilhelmina's art shifted into a focus on glacial rock formations, the subject of which she is associated today. 

Recall the blues and greens of many Suffolk-made greetings cards (rather than the house pink)? Or, how those colors are universally applied to the sky and land? That's a possible influence from the St Ives School of Art, of which Barns-Graham was a member from the 1950s. Although they didn't formally recognize themselves as such, this still makes Barns-Graham's omission from modern art history more questionable. As the film rightly points out, the 70's women's liberation movement should have done more to raise the profile of her work. Among famed actress Tilda Swinton reading from Barns-Graham's notes, we hear personal testimonies on her refusal to conform to the standards of the art world, like friend and historian Lynne Greene remembering her as " a bit combative...she didn't know how to work the system". What system was it, exactly, that Barns-Graham didn't know how to work? Was it her beauty, acknowledged by these accounts, that overshadowed her artistic potential? Competition from male artists who envied her perspective? Yet Barns-Graham never did conform, continuing to see beauty and symmetry where she stood. The glimmer of water over pebbles, the contrasting mountain ranges of Orkney and Scotland, even the half-moon shape found in her St Ives paintings- all of this led to a vast body of work that the film allows to roll, almost endlessly, one after the other.

​This is a deeply sensory film, with operatic music, animated brushstrokes and striking portraiture staying true to the feel of a contemporary essay film. Cousins invites the audience- art critics or not- for more than a mere 'glimpse' into another forgotten artist. A Sudden Glimpse to Deeper Things raises new questions about the relevancy of female art, but it also leaves the hopeful impression that, like the lines of rock formations, Barns-Graham's legacy will endure.

Romeo and Juliet: Beyond Words film review Along with the many renewals of Easter- the sighting of cherry blossom, maybe another chocolate egg you didn't expect to find- was a specially themed ballet film weekend at the Barns. Commissioned by our lead film programmer and professional dancer, Luke, Romeo and Juliet: Beyond Words (2019) reimagines the classic Royal Opera House debut from 1965 as a made-for-film adaptation. It's a cinematic pirouette, turning a familiar story around through the expertise of directors Michael Nunn and William Trevitt, retaining both the charm of Sergei Prokofiev's original 1938 score and Kenneth Macmillan's choreography whilst infusing new life into Shakespeare's tragedy.

Joining a lineage of Shakespearean filmography, such as the Italian director Franco Zeffirelli's version in 1968 and Baz Lurhmann's modern-day take in 1996, the ambitions behind Beyond Words were closer to home. Similar to how venues like our own showcase artists and performances to smaller, rural communities, Nunn and Trevitt wanted "a non dance audience to experience the story" via their film. Whilst ballet certainly doesn't fall into popular culture, the techniques employed here appeal to the sensibilities of a visually receptive audience. The camera is able to pick up the nuances and emotions of the dancers, whilst a custom-built film set from Korda Studios in Hungary- also the shooting location of the fantastical Poor Things and architectural epic The Brutalist- gives us the fully realised, tactile world of 16th century Verona. Instead of a darkened theatre, the film opens into a bustling market square roamed by farm animals and villagers about their work, the sun rising over terraces in a perfect evocation of morning. All seems tranquil enough until a fight breaks out between the rival Montagues and Capulets and with it a faster pace in Prokofiev's score. Having being introduced to classical music through his 1936 score to Peter and the Wolf as a child, I found myself following character motifs again here- the skittish, playful notes of Juliet's nurse compared to the deep and intimidating timbre of Tybalt, whilst Hayward playing the Mandolin herself gives her wooing of Romeo the feel of a contemporary romance movie.

The extras serve an even more important function than they might have in a dialogue film, following the action in both expression and maneuvers across the stage. With the gift of film transition, and the help of costume designer Nicholas Georgiadis, one becomes familiarized with the characters. The red clothing identifies members of the Capulets, with orange being the comparative dress of the peasantry and workers and green signifying wealth, Juliet (debut star Francesca Hayward) and her father Lord Capulet (established dancer Christopher Saunders) in shades of jade and forest green. If the number of extras seems confusing at first, then the green worn by Romeo (debut of William Bracewell) during the Capulet ball, the possessive glares of dancer Matthew Ball as Tybalt and Marcelino Sambe's portrayal of intermediator Mercutio, flittering between the groups, signals these characters out.

The overtly staged ballroom 'Dance of the Knight' makes use of these rich sartorial textures, gowns flowing in unison with the dancers as if they too had a life of their own. However, I was particularly impressed by the attention to detail in even the supporting cast, like the pink embroidered gowns and beaded headdresses of Juliet's maids - recalling what a costumier might choose for Tchaikovsky's The Nutcracker- and the virtuous white of the two lovers meeting outside Juliet's balcony as night falls, the blue stage lighting bringing us back into a theatrical space. A beam of light through the chapel as they secretly wed makes the film feel transcendent, and the soft, warm glow of Juliet's chamber speaks to the intimacy of the love story. Instead of Beyond Words, perhaps this film could have been called Better Than, because the real set design and post-production can seem inextricable.

And it's not just the intricacy of costume design or scene setting that makes Beyond Words feel like a powerful film, but what cinematography can offer dance in general. Trevitt and Nunn wanted to tell more than one story, so trimming the ballet's full length to 90 minutes was a practical and creative decision. A shallow focus shot ( blurring the surroundings whilst leaving a character in clarity) underscores Tybalt's growing anger in a separate location outside the 'stage', a high angle shot from the balcony gives the viewer Juliet's perspective, and the pain of being misunderstood is realised through a close up of her distraught expression after fighting with her parents. Inevitably, with cutting footage there's a risk of 'rushing' pivotal moments and the fated scene of the two lovers by Juliet's deathbed could have benefited from a longer take, even if we could still marvel at how gracefully Bracewell lifted Hayward's body in 'The Deaths of the Lovers' whilst performing Romeo's demise.

​It's fitting that the last piece of music in Beyond Words is none other than Dire Strait's 1980 song of the same name- a knowing nod to the resonance and universality of Romeo and Juliet's feuding families and doomed love. Even if you won't be seeing a ballet in the Royal Opera House, Norwich's Theatre Royal or stand by that classical music and dance fall out of your scope of interest, Beyond Words renews perceptions of 'high art' (ballet) and 'low art' (film) as something that many different people could access and enjoy. Nunn, W and Trevitt, W, 2020. ‘Making “Romeo and Juliet”, Great Performances. https://www.pbs.org/wnet/gperf/blog/making-romeo-and-juliet/

Image courtesy of Creative Arts East.
​Article by Izzy - our in-house Film Critic Volunteer