/ Soraya Chemaly

Spoilers for each movie discussed!

There is a secret menu of perversion that exists outside of our stereotypical aversions to nudity and sex. It lives just beyond a pair of Mary Janes and sharing someone’s hairbrush.

The origins of this anxiety are too broad and vague to distinguish. It has no traceable creator nor a name attached to its condemning.

Body-Horror in regards to cinema does, however, have a beginning. It has a renaissance just as it has pitfalls. These can co-exist and frequently melt into more niche understandings like Camp.

One could claim that Luis Buñuel and Salvador Dalí’s surrealist short film Un Chien Andalou (1929) is where this subgenre got its name; the infamous scene in which a woman’s eye is sliced open with a straight razor.

One could claim that John Carpenter’s 1982 classic The Thing was released during this genre’s renaissance. It was a decade also shared with cult favorites like Videodrome (1983) and The Fly (1986)- one of the notable heights of Hollywood’s practical effects unit.

One could also claim that with digital filmmaking and computerized imagery came its pitfalls, like The Human Centipede (2009) or Teeth (2007).

While these lines grow blurry depending on who you ask- there is a specific through-line that I have recognized as I’ve begun to dip my toes into this genre. That being the very prominent, female investments in its culture.

They can be few and far between- but when you consider the stand-outs, everything else reveals itself in full. Such reveals can be conveyed in the films Titane (2021), Under the Skin (2013), Suspiria (1977), and most recently The Substance (2024).

Director Julia Ducournau is no tourist to the island of organic horror. Released five years after her bizzaro hit Raw, Ducournau taps into something uniquely disturbing with her 2021 thriller Titane.

Without spoiling the niceties of the film, we follow our homicidal main character- beginning as Alexia before transitioning into Adrien- as they leave a trail of blood behind them after a rather outlandish sexual encounter.

The sexual encounter in question serves as the match of the film- which everything else sets fire to. In the beginning, whilst still going by Alexia, we see them working as a dancer at French motor shows. The dances, of course, being of a sexual nature. We don’t know much about Alexia outside of a car accident that took place during their childhood which forced them into adorning a metal plate fitted to their skull.

Whether the metal plate is the source of their eccentrism or something else entirely- they are shown to be off- something refractory about how they interact with their surroundings and thus, deciding to copulate with an inhuman organism.

It is when we think this is the big shocker of the story that everything unfurls in its own horrific, agonizing way. We watch Alexia forge a homicidal path of destruction after finding out they are pregnant. With what? Certainly nothing human.

This realization is not the only weight Alexia carries during their run. We watch them meet a man, grief-stricken after losing his son, adopt Alexia and essentially assume them as Adrien- the child that was lost.

To keep a roof over their head and food on their plate- Alexia agrees to becoming Adrien- both of them knowing the truth despite the intentional deception. A coping mechanism of the most deranged order.

Between the agony of pregnancy and the impromptu assimilation into manhood- every scene featuring Adrien becomes one of pure agony. We watch their body transfigure into one that can accommodate a child- all while Alexia is fighting against this form so they can become Adrien.

It is important to note that the general reception of this film is recognized as a metaphorical criticism on the process of transitioning. The story utilizes these tropes by subverting them as grotesquely as possible. As Alexia transitions into Adrien, it is horrible; it is anguish. It is this sequence that acts as a deliberately distorted perspective of gender reassignment.

Everything about this story is an act of destruction. Alexia destroys the gender-defining protocols they were expected to follow when working. This act re-lives itself when they use a transmasculine device like binding their breasts, or when they break their own nose so it appears angular.

Alexia rebels against nature by engaging in the initial sexual encounter, then rebels again when they decide to adopt manhood as a means of escaping vulnerability and reality. Everything is a ploy to free themselves from human expectation- even if it means destroying oneself completely.

Human infatuation with space does not end at the tagline on an alien t-shirt or low-quality videos of UFO sightings. It translates into literature, culture, and especially film as a medium.

Sci-fi remains my favorite genre not only because it’s just cool, but also because of how lucrative it is. Sci-fi concepts can lend themselves to anything. It can minimize itself into a subgenre that can exist in westerns, thrillers, comedies, and even romances.

But what it seems to thrive within most, is ideas of cosmic horror. Themes of otherwordly detriment and how it relates to our own existence.

Jonathan Glazer’s 2013 film Under the Skin is informed by that exact idea.

Scarlett Johansson’s performance as The Female is nothing short of smart. She conveys this extraterrestrial, transforming being as quiet and deeply contemplative of the world it is experiencing.

As this creature disguises itself as a human woman- it treks across Scotland in a stolen van with a singular purpose: lure as many men as it can.

The void-like space this creature lures men into is not its own belly- nor is it some chamber of torture. Rather, it is a shapeless environment where once seduced- a human body is dissolved of its structure till it exists as nothing more than a pile of flesh.

The Female is not seen eating, nor deriving pleasure from this process. She is calm, collected, and acting out of sheer instinct or some greater instruction.

The Female is quick to catch onto the fact that human men are easier targets than their feminine counterparts. By consistently utilizing her female form sexually- each prey she captures is willing, like a bug flown into a Venus Flytrap of its own volition. The consequence of ones flippant succumbing to their own desires.

This process comes easily to her until she begins to grow familiar with her prey. She allows the hunt to take longer than it usually would- and at one point even pities a facially deformed man she intended to kill.

What was once a ‘turn and leave’ procedure is now one she observes. The Female now finds herself watching as her prey sinks into the void, becoming formless: a heap of skin she once dismissed.

It is when she encounters a man in the woods that everything changes.

She becomes the prey, and when the man is no more- her true form escapes from the human one. She looks upon herself and recognizes her dying expression as fear.

The Female is perhaps a genderless representation of what a feminine mind is expected to do to survive. We are given no context as to how or why this being is on Earth- only that it is here to feed the void with masculine bodies.

This routine is equally transactional. The woman pays with herself and the man receives with his soul- while simultaneously cannibalizing parts of himself for the sexual machine.

The Female may spend her spare time watching bodies dissolve into nothing- but at least she doesn’t laugh when you take your clothes off.

Although the decade following proved to be a larger arc for the body horror genre- it was the 70s that introduced a new-wave seduction to pre-existing thrills.

Sharing space with cult classics like Eraserhead (1977), Shivers (1975), and The Hills Have Eyes (1977)- Italian filmmaker Dario Argento’s grotesque nightmare Suspiria is a unique standout.

Released in 1977, the film is adapted from a series of essays under a similar title- Suspiria de Profundis, which, from Latin to English, translates to “sighs from the depths”. Upon author Thomas De Quincey’s death, there was a list of 32 items that would comprise a complete Suspiria.

The collection of prose details the visionary experiences had by the author, who was heavily addicted to opium, and examines how our memory is impacted by hallucinogenic tampering.

The film, both old and new, utilizes this through-line by telling the story of a young woman who upon traveling to Germany to attend a prestigious dance school, uncovers a sinister truth about the company.

Suzy Bannion, played by Jessica Harper, is the first to witness the murder of a fellow dancer when she first arrives. It isn’t until after she settles into the group that something sick begins to reveal itself.

Through wicked dreams and warped voices- we watch as Suzy descends into an impossibly distorted mindscape where dancing is no longer what drives her to stay, but rather something more ancient and subconscious.

One by one, she watches these women perish at the hands of something mystical and deeply, deeply horrifying. She manages to weed through these horrors until she discovers that the dance company is an ancient coven of witches who intend to find a new host for their worshipped deity: Mother Suspiriorum.

Mother Suspiriorum, however, is only 1/3 of the entities that make up a trio of sisters known as The Mothers. With her name translating to “Mother of Sighs”, the other two, Mother Tenebrarum and Lachrymarum, are deemed the mothers of darkness and tears.

It is revealed that not only is Suzy to be the intended host for Suspiriorum, but that her fate has been sealed forever, leaving us with scarce glimpses and premonitions of such fate throughout the film.

Suspiria takes the original ideas of psychological distortion and processes them through a feminine lens; how women can weaponize a matriarchal system against its own. It depicts Suzy’s journey as a mountain of bloodshed she must climb to become the best version of herself, even if that comes at the cost of other women.

The gory, psychedelic imagery is a dramatized perspective of how betrayal and self-preservation can warp a feminine mind, becoming an all-consuming beast that is never satisfied.

It becomes a testament to the agony women endure in order to find divinity and grace.

French screenwriter and director Coralie Fargeat held nothing back when writing the script for her latest hit The Substance, starring Demi Moore and Margaret Qualley.

Elisabeth Sparkle, played by Moore, is a washed-up movie star who, upon being fired from the only gig she could retain, seeks the effects of a black-market drug known only as The Substance.

Moore’s character is conventionally attractive, and yet, despite this, longs for something that will disillusion her from her age, appearance, and circumstance.

The Substance’s creator is never revealed nor shown but remains simply as a voice on the other end of the phone, instructing its users on how to use the drug appropriately.

It takes a toll on Elisabeth’s body- quite literally birthing from her a younger, slimmer, prettier version of herself born straight from her spine (pictured above).

Sue is hot, Sue has game, Sue can get any job she wants- which ends up being the same job Elisabeth was just fired from.

Becoming the lead dancer for a popular aerobic program, Sue, or Elisabeth, re-enters the limelight as Hollywood’s newest bombshell. Sue has an ass that kills, which is shown on screen in at least 20 different angles.

What becomes glaringly apparent as Sue and Elisabeth switch bodies regularly- is that this torrid, sexualized occupation is all she has known. It’s just the way things are. Elisabeth’s mind, whether in her own body or Sue’s, never addresses the use of her body to remain in the spotlight. It is simply how things are- it is what she has to do to stay beautiful, to stay relevant.

Everything takes a turn when Elisabeth’s mind begins to sever- offering Sue her own little corner of consciousness. Sue becomes selfish. Longing to stay in her body for as long as possible- she disrespects the rules of the drug, regularly withdrawing marrow from her host-bodies spine so she can inject it into herself and remain in control.

The impact of this discourse is less than pretty. Each time Sue takes from Elisabeth- it extracts life from parts of her, leaving limbs gray and deadened.

This results in retaliation on both sides. Each time one of them is at the steering wheel- they use this window to sabotage the other, which leads to further decaying in Elisabeth and growing flaws in Sue.

Throughout it all, the both of them reach out to the mysterious dealer of the drug- emphasizing the abuse of the other, to which the male voice simply responds:

“There is no other. You are one.”

The male characters in this film are few, but detrimental to how both women interact with each other and their lives. Harvey, played by Dennis Quaid, is Elisabeth’s yellow-toothed manager who takes no issue with utilizing women’s bodies for his business. It is he who gripes about Elisabeth’s “old age” and how viewership has tanked since her glory days- a conversation she mistakenly overhears.

There is the man on the phone- the distant voice of some formless chemist or dealer whose role is to remind Elisabeth and Sue of what they signed up for. He reminds them that no matter how submersive The Substance may be- there is no she. You are one.

Every other male counterpart is like a mosquito in the wind. The lovers of Sue and the men who fund her career- all being extensions of a greater machine who long only to keep her bottled up so they can disperse her as they please.

This battle for dominance between both women culminates until Elisabeth decides to end the experience, thus, terminating Sue. Before she finishes the job- Elisabeth falters, deciding that she “needs” Sue.

One of the simple rules of The Substance is that while your consciousness is in the body of the host or better-self- the other is completely dormant for a period of 7 days.

This rule is broken when Sue awakes- staring face to face with Elisabeth, her host body.

Sue has gained full consciousness and becomes enraged with the attempt on her life, so she opts to kill Elisabeth, leaving only her to live on.

However, her glamorous reality begins to shatter when as she is preparing for the biggest event of her career- her body finds itself decaying- the aftereffects of the drug Elisabeth administered to terminate her.

With her teeth falling from her gums and her nails peeling from her fingers- Sue breaks one of the biggest rules of all: do not use the activator more than once.

From Sue’s attempt to create a third better version of her now-dying self, is an amalgamated creature born of both women. This creature, a gum-wad of Elisabeth and Sue combined, tries to continue with the event if only to erupt in a combustion of blood and gore- the body completely overcome with The Substance.

If it wasn’t already clear enough, The Substance touches on several ideas. Body image, dysmorphia, and workplace abuse are all concepts this story explores through its hyper-grisly ambiance and imagery.

The Substance is quite literally a theatrical perspective on how women respond to societal expectations, both in the casual and in the professional. It details the psychological toll taken when beauty is valued over oneself and the aftermath of scars- surgical or otherwise.

There is something to say about our natural aversion to blood and guts- a sort of subconscious diversion from what lies within us.

It becomes a question of what we are willing to witness when we consider whose blood is being spilled:

Some guy? Or a very, very beautiful woman?

Which is easier to watch?

Which one can we endure?

Yes, Diary of a Wimpy Kid: Dog Days belongs on this list. Yes, it is because of its representation of preteen shenanigans. Yes, it is a work of comedic and adaptation genius. I will be taking no further criticism!

I hail from Kansas City, Missouri today- where the throes of summer are barreling on in its most oppressive fashion, one that no amount of full-body deodorant and ice-cubed lemonade can dissolve. It’s the most horrific time of the year! Pools are full, parking is a death sentence, and somehow none of your clothes seem to be fitting right. We scroll to kill time, only to glance at the clock and realize what you’d thought was an hour had only been 10 minutes.

The longest day of the year has passed, and yet a single rotation of our planet feels like a quarter of our lifetime. This is Summer. And while much of it should be spent absorbing Vitamin D or looking for a new job (any job at all), I intend on sitting through every hour enduring cinema that speaks to the suffering. Which is, in an odd light, a lot.

It is no secret what the apparent appeals of summer may be to a writer: sweat that glistens, freedom that is numbered, affairs unresolved, and social torture sold by the dozen. Been there, done that. But what is it about these factors that make this season so seducing? What is it about summer that brings us back to those novels, songs, and films that invoke such a feeling? The fact that it is fleeting.

All the films in the banner above share one idea in common: the finality of a thing you’d thought would be immortal. Call Me by Your Name adapted by Italian director Luca Gudagnino (Challengers, Bones and All) in 2017, is a film of that exact nature. From paper to screen based on the 2007 novel of the same name written by André Aciman- Call Me by Your Name has cemented itself as something of a cult classic in both the realm of Summertime flicks and in the Romance genre itself. Elio is a young boy, soaking in the undeniable essence of a 1980s summer somewhere in northern Italy. His world shifts when meeting his father’s archeology assistant, Oliver, a 24-year-old graduate student hailing from the States who is visiting the little summer house for the season.

The controversy is as plain as the sky is blue- a tumultuous, co-dependent relationship between the adult Oliver and the seventeen-year-old Elio. It is incredibly important to note that every song, poem, color, and word spoken is perceived through the eyes of a teenage Elio. The summer of 1983 is one of forbidden touches and lingering gazes, but otherwise depraved in the nature of experience versus the inexperienced. The pair spend the first half of the Summer in silent acknowledgment, before acting on their desires somewhere in the middle- resulting in the bitter reality finally crashing down upon them when Oliver has to return home (to his female fiance nonetheless).

Call Me by Your Name portrays this seductively transient ethos through its beautifying attention to detail. We observe this most frequently in its metrical soundtrack performed by indie-folk artist Sufjan Stevens, its color-graded warmth, and most apparently in its shot composition- consisting largely of bodily close-ups and prolonged scenes of simple behaviors. It is, like several films on this list, a dream-like state viewed through the eyes of someone young enough to see it as such. Distorted and naive, glowing and unforgettable. It is the actuality of that fantasy which draws us in and sucker-punches our hearts. It burns our toast and butters it too.

The heat has always been dreadful, but once upon a time, it was thought to be bearable- exciting even. Once upon a time, we were all thirteen, relishing in the schedule-less days and cooling nights that the summer welcomed. An onrush of exploding notions and self-discovery, there’s just some media we’ll always hold closest to our hearts. Diary of a Wimpy Kid is a youth-series of books written by Jeff Kinney and adapted into a film trilogy of the same name in 2010–2012 that shares the same effect.

Diary of a Wimpy Kid: Dog Days (2012) adheres to this concept but with a particularly charming twist. Greg Heffley (portrayed by Zachary Gordon) is about to enter middle school and is thrilled when the summertime promises days-without-end of gaming, snacking, and hanging out with his best friend Rowley (Robert Capron). The thrill is disrupted when his dad (Steve Zahn) decides some father-son bonding is in order, effectively uprooting his time off in place of family time and camping trips.

The child-geared nature is not beyond any of us. Most vibrant in its humor, plot, and laughably senseless conflict- these films are, in fact, for the faint of heart. These facts, however, do not erase the nostalgia-inducing conditions of that last summer before entering higher education. Diary of a Wimpy Kid is unflinchingly cringe, not in the ‘baring your soul to the internet’ kind of way- but in the ‘I accidentally knocked out the lead of our school play on opening night’ kind of way.

It is shockingly in that exact embarrassment, that all the charm and intrigue of these looney characters and stories thrives. It is a shameless testament to the pre-teen experience in all its ludicrous glory, and how a single summer can teach you things about yourself that will sustain through the decades that follow. It’s the memories we’d rather forget and the crushes we so quickly developed that convey the admittedly inane wonder that dissolves into adulthood. Which could mean nothing and everything all at once.

Do The Right Thing (1989) is without a doubt a cult classic across any and all genres. Directed by the iconic Spike Lee- it’s the ‘summer movie’ of all the ‘summer movies’, and has a lot to say outside of that fact.

Tensions rise when a Brooklyn pizza shop owner (Danny Aiello) is accused of racism when a local (Giancarlo Esposito) notices he has a wall picturing only Italian actors. It follows Mookie (Spike Lee), also a local, navigating social complexities and brash conflicts on the hottest day of the year.

Do The Right Thing is first and foremost a commentary on gentrification from within- while outwardly colliding with its sister issues like bigotry and police brutality. Though these rectifying concepts act as the films’ spearheading message, they also work in collaboration with the more light-hearted themes of adolescence and weaponized incompetence. These ideas reveal themselves via hardened dialogue, distinct character arcs, and raunchy humor that acts as a double-edged sword.

There’s this brief thought that occurs in many people when watching: is it that serious, or is it that hot? Spike Lee emphasizes these questions by truly immersing us in the misery of such a day. It’s an overstimulating process- smash cuts between air-conditioned businesses and brick-wall apartments without AC units. The sheer rage of it all is scorching nearly as hot as the sun and doesn’t shy away from showing us the results of human-impatience. Impatience to comply, do, speak, act. It is glaringly obvious in the way Bill Nunn’s character Radio Raheem blasts NWA from his iconic speaker- his death later in the film being fuel to the flame.

Do The Right Thing is a representation of what we can become capable of if provoked, and what we all dare to say in the heat of a moment despite thinking it all along.

“It’s the hottest day of the summer. You can do nothing, you can do something, or you can do the right thing.”

Oh to exist in the same vein as depraved Italian romance films set somewhere in 1980s Europe. There’s an irreplaceable ambiance that this subgenre creates- quiet and impassioned, bewitching and lonely. Alice Rohrwacher’s recent triumph La Chimera is no exception to these descriptors.

Saddened upon returning to the small town where his long-lost lover previously resided, gravedigger Arthur (Josh O’Connor) is forced to reconnect with all she left behind, including his unlawful line of work and plaguing visions of what could-have been.

As your resident sucker for disorienting fiction, La Chimera takes the cake and clears the plate too. Similar to its older counterpart Call Me by Your Name, there’s a notion of indulging in the perverse- something sickeningly curious in how we cannot help but cling to what we also must hide. However, there’s a heft to La Chimera that has an edge all of its own. Unlike its close relatives, the romance taking place is that of distant memories, fading heatstrokes, and turbulent soundscapes that bitterly remind Arthur of what he’d left behind.

Everything we watch on screen is in service of a carefully curated atmosphere, something lonely and even sinister in the way Arthur detaches himself from things he once valued. His frenetic visions are always filmed within the flare of the sun, while his day-to-day existence remains largely beneath the shroud of summertime thunderstorms and phantoms from his past. The people around him are a cruel reminder of a feeling he can never again obtain, and while they live their lives in their own respective solitude- something special occurs when Arthur tosses the head of a multi-million-dollar Italian sculpture into a lake. He dug it up himself, but the cost could not compare to what such art deserved: immortality.

As long as he could hold it in his hands, beneath the dimming sun of day, there would be no permanence. It was damned the moment they extracted it from its Earthly tomb, and it would never find its previous eternity unless it returned to the Earth once more. Fall will come and I will age- but what if you could live forever?

A personal favorite and a classic in virtually every respect- Richard Linklater’s 1995 romance success Before Sunrise is one of those special stories where nothing happens at all. There is an acknowledgment of its containment- Jesse Wallace (Ethan Hawke) is a young, aspiring writer traveling Europe on train when he meets the deliriously French nomad Celine (Julie Delpy) on his way to Vienna, where they spontaneously agree to share the day until one of them must part come sunrise.

It’s the summer of 1995 in Austria, two complete and utter strangers rush to the nearest Ferris wheel and confess their adolescent secrets to each other before promising this love would return. Whether in the form of themselves or a fruitful career, this feeling would find them again, and that is all this film follows. For 1 hour and 45 minutes, we watch as Celine and Jesse raise questions like- are modern souls only a fraction of the original souls? And why are French men so horny?

These questions, answers, and moments all occur beneath the dwindling daylight of the Vienna sun- the heat not bothering them in the slightest as they find shade beneath the 24-hour roof of a bar, and a bridge where a poet offers to write them a sonnet for a dime. This, is the pinnacle of summertime expression. Had Celine been able to stay for days rather than go to Paris- there would have been no haste to kiss, touch, imagine, and discuss. Had it not been vacation season, Jesse never would’ve boarded that train, and had it not been for the opportunistic length of such a warm day- he never would have asked Celine to explore it with him.

“Thus shall you think of this fleeting world:

a star at dawn

a bubble in a stream

a flash of lightening in a summer cloud

a flickering lamp

a phantom

and a dream.”

— sotce

“What you got ain’t nothin’ new. This country’s hard on people. You can’t stop what’s coming. It ain’t all waiting on you. That’s vanity.”

As a BIPOC young adult with far-left tendencies, no psychological betrayal wounded me with such severity as my sudden (and somehow disrupting) appreciation for midwestern and southern spectrums of culture. Growing up in the south-central pickle of Kansas, I was hardly a stranger to the unrelenting pangs of desolate society: unremarkable gas stations, hibernating mites, and those second-guessing’s between the scream of a coyote and that of a human woman (sometimes too similar to differ). It is toward the end of my residency here that I more often than ever before find myself in moments of unadmitted reflection over the behavior of this land I’ve lived on- how it’s moved and how it’s treated me. My grandparents on my mother’s side are multi-generational farmers to the near west of us- knowing all too well that if this country was ‘barely made suitable for old men’, it can’t have been too kind toward girls like me.

The Seventh Seal (1958) is a somewhat surrealist tale of a disillusioned knight returning home from the Crusades, only to find that his country has been gripped by the fatal squeeze of the Black Death. Unsettled, he challenges Death personified to a game of chess- in which the figure will not take him if played, and if won by the knight will be spared completely. The idea of Death being an embodied persona isn’t new, and is a similarly seen concept in the many works of one author Cormac McCarthy. In several of his novels, McCarthy employs his antagonists as not simply enactors of mischief- but conduits of evil representation, often being these cold, nihilistic forces with unknown motivations. This is the case in his 2005 crime-western novel No Country for Old Men, the film of the same name directed by the Coen Brothers coming out only 2 years afterward in 07'.

Unlike some of his more boastful, showman-like antagonists of earlier novels- McCarthy writes of one fictional Anton Chigurh- a nearly soundless bulk of a man often clad in all black and dawning a hairstyle that of the 1980s bowl-cut. Chigurh moves about both the book and film with a fluidity so unbothered- it convinces the consumer that he has lived a life beyond what is currently being told- a confidence in the reasoning skills of the reader and viewer that few authors and filmmakers give credit to. This scape is familiar and untroubling to navigate for most of the characters in this story like average-joe Llewelyn Moss, and sheriff of Terrell County Ed Tom Bell. Despite its lived-in quality, Terrell and its surrounding counties that make up Texas feel a shift in their way of life- a newfound nature that Sheriff Bell describes as “…something I don’t understand. A man would have to put his soul at hazard. He’d have to say, ‘O.K., I’ll be part of this world.’”

With this change in weather comes a fleeting idea of fatalism- a concept defined by its belief that all events are predetermined by some universal destiny or choice; completely unchanged by human efforts. We see this notion most commonly enacted by Chigurh himself by means of a coin toss. Like Death personified in The Seventh Seal, only two outcomes can result from partaking: life or death. Those who seek a loophole by refusing to engage face the same end regardless- assumed as an automatic loss and dealt the card of demise. This idea similarly employs two narratives: blind participation and fate itself. Though Chigurh most often prefers a method of equal decision when considering murder- there are other moments throughout the neo-western where he decides that death must occur for strategic and self-preserving reasons. Whether a result of witnessed crime or external dangers to his personhood- he becomes an enlarging, governing body and deliverer of death across these Texas planes on numerous fronts.

Ideas of grave duality are unavoidable in both the novel and film- represented in the single reprieve Chigurh offers his victims, a coin, and in the twin aftermaths of participation. These stakes of life or death highlighted in the sheer uncertainty of the Southern land are No Country’s defining anthems, and a bleak exploration into how humans confront the inexplicable.

The first 12 withstanding shots in the film are still, stoical callbacks to the simplistic notions of its Western predecessors; nostalgic invocations of that long-lived tale of morality: good versus evil—white handkerchief versus black. This is a comfort most regularly endorsed by Terrell County’s Sheriff Ed Tom Bell, whose opening monologue in both the novel and movie describes- “Some of the old-time Sheriffs never even wore a gun. A lotta folks find that hard to believe… I always liked to hear about the old-timers… Can’t help but wonder how they’d have operated in these times.” With this longing for the past externalized equally in his Andy Griffith-like disposition toward carrying a firearm- or lack thereof- Sheriff Bell navigates his corner of Texas in a way familiar to himself and those before him, yet increasingly foreign to the land they’ve lived on.

This is further dichotomized when we are introduced to the clear protagonist of our story- Llewelyn Moss. Llewelyn is younger, sandpapered, and conscious of the sky he sleeps beneath. Unlike the hesitance of Bell to enter into a potentially precarious situation in the name of blindness- Moss is most often one boot ahead, hastily slipping in and out of the current of danger with little pretense but some southern intuition.

We recall his scene of introduction in which he’s just discovered a cartel-influenced massacre, discovering an untouched truckbed of narcotics. Rather than fleeing or contacting law enforcement- Moss remains- and inquires the dwindling life of an involvee about the “último hombre”, last man standing. Llewelyn searches, even commenting on the “dumbass” vulnerability of his curiosity before deducing that if he were anywhere- he’d be in shade. When he discovers the already waning corpse of último hombre, along with a considerably persuasive briefcase containing 2.4 million dollars in his decomposing hand, Llewelyn doesn’t whoop with joy. He doesn’t payphone his wife or praise his luck with any overt immediacy. Instead, he rests backward on his haunches, examining the same horizon we dwelled on previously for several moments before deciding with a ‘hm’ that he will collect the goods and be on his way.

It is this consistent juncture of regard that keeps Moss ahead of the bullet, and while he remains bearably unscathed by the relentlessness of involving forces, it is Sheriff Bell’s reluctance to fully approach the present that keeps him far behind the gunman- despite his role.

McCarthy is an author of the critically visual; striking examinations of long-lost frontiers and prose that inquires into the minds of those inhabiting it. It is these inquisitions that establish a sort of lived-in quality in his characters. When we enter into one of his stories, we are rarely granted the luxury of formal exposition- and why should we? These individuals know their land, lives, and relations- we are merely onlookers dropped into the epicenter of an event. Who are we to demand explanation? McCarthy understands this and develops these inhabitants first as people before characters. The Coen Brothers- directors of the film- grasped this vernacular with equal understanding, Joel Coen telling McCarthy in Time Magazine, “…it was the idea of the physical work that somebody does that helps reveal who they are and is part of the fiber of the story… you only saw this person in this movie making things and doing things in order to survive and to make this journey… the fact that you were thrown back on that, as opposed to any dialogue, was interesting to us.”

When Llewelyn dares to take the money, he is explicitly depicted to be no stranger to these circumstances, as shown in his persistent ability to stay one step ahead. With not only the shroud of criminal society pursuing him but also the unclear motivations of Anton Chigurh on his tail- Moss somehow remains at the bow of conflict, last-second decisions made on a pure instinct we could possibly attribute to his time in Vietnam. Within that instinct is an equal indication of his morality: straight-arrowed and loyal to his beliefs. Moss regularly abandons his wife for the sake of her safety, simultaneously telling her the truth of his predicament while concealing the gory details. His entire launch into these events being none other than an ethical inclination to bring water to a dying man he’d previously discovered at the opening crime scene. It is that act, and continuous acts of socially perceived goodness that gets both the reader and audience comfortable in his company- and increasingly rooting in his favor.

While we sit back and grow attached to the likes of decent-natured Llewelyn- we are also subjected to the horrors wrought by Chigurh, as he spends his page/screen time plowing through the county and any folk who may slow him down. Bell behind Chigurh and Chigurh behind Moss is a consistent narrative we follow across the South- and isn’t brought to a head until Anton threatens the likes of Llewelyn’s blissfully unaware wife, Carla Jean. Chigurh has strangled, punctured, and shot the life out of anyone he even suspects of posing as a roadblock to his goals- described by hired bounty hunter Carson Wells (Woody Harrelson) as “…A peculiar man. You might even say he has principles- principles that transcend money, drugs, or anything like that. Not’ like you. He’s not even like me.”

McCarthy has had his share of death personified throughout his work but unlike the showmanship of Judge Holden in Blood Meridian, or the vividly hopeless environment of The Road, McCarthy writes Anton Chigurh as an operator nearly behind the scenes. We are allowed no grace, nor luxury into the recesses of his mind, only the calculated language of his body and the staggering violence carried out with it. He speaks when spoken to, and only when he feels that a response is owed to him, or something is in need of demanding to further a point. When approaching a conflict, his boots are either kept away or removed completely from the onslaught of gore that may follow. Any wounds he may receive are treated like the deflation of a tire, or the faulty wiring of a complex- something quick to be repaired, and only out of a fundamental need to keep going- rarely out of pain.

Like death personified in The Seventh Seal, Chigurh runs more mechanically than anything organic- administering doom with equal decision like nature itself: fair. Which is why when Llewelyn promises him a showdown upon hearing the threats of his wife- it is a shock when we witness neither, instead, we are allowed the discovery of his shot-up corpse by none other than our favorite sheriff- Ed Tom Bell. His hesitance serving him well- Bell finally catches up to the reality he’s been trying so desperately to avoid, the cost lying in the news he has to give to Carla Jean, and in the newfound fears this country now offers him.

“I always figured when I got older, God would sorta come inta my life somehow. And he didn’t. I don’t blame him.”

Some say home is the first grave- others say it’s where the heart is. Both can be true. Where you’re from isn’t the same as where you’ve been because you can’t erase where you’re from. Where you’ve been is a memory- an assortment of images you’re free to leave at any given time- but your home, well that’s where we most often return to, physically or otherwise.

A conditioned mistake most readers and audience members make is the collective assumptions made about a character- what they’ll do and how it’ll get done. We assume that like Westerns of an earlier time, faithful convictions and honest decisions will save our protagonist. Because Moss checked our boxes- daring, courageous, foul-mouthed, and decent- we conclude that his morals will be the winning number. It is that very assumption that both McCarthy and the Coens turn on its head. Some things just can’t be solved with a simple tilt of a hat and gesture to your holster. Some things exist outside of our control. Death, fate, morality, we assign deeply human associations with these ideas to allow us a better night's rest.

Llewelyn underestimates the country, frequently disregarding its forces in the name of a ‘shoot now talk later’ mentality. Carla Jean gives the country a benefit of the doubt- placing the blame solely on men rather than the elements. Bounty hunter Carson Wells dismisses the country, a mindset expressed in the law of his occupation, and in the gruesome nature of his death at the hand of Chigurh. Sheriff Ed Tom Bell- the primary deliverer of information in the novel and transformed into a more secondary conduit of theme in the film- fears the country. Despite what he says, Bell makes relentless efforts throughout the film and book to stay at a reasonable distance from the horrors occurring- at one point even making his comical deputy enter a crime scene before him. It isn’t until death is finally approaching the mat at his door that he steps into the fray- acknowledging the present for what it currently is.

No Country for Old Men is not only a reinvention of a classic narrative but also a glimpse into a unique kind of vulnerability we rarely see in Southern culture. Death can be a luxury- the single guarantee we have in this life. It can also be a reckoning- an ego death to those who may forget its ability. Death, as we’ve seen, can be a sudden courier of demise dressed head to toe in dark hues and expensive maroon snakeskin boots. No matter the form taken- it works as a sort of apparition- often omitted and feared too late.

In the final scene of the film, we listen to the Sheriff describe to his wife a pair of dreams he had the following night, both starring his father who he comments is now younger than him by 20 years due to a premature death. The first is a vague memory- a meeting in town where he’s to collect some money his father has that he thinks he may have forgotten. He’s quick to recall the second, which he describes as being in those ‘older times’ he so often reminisced about. On horseback he traverses through a chilly mountain pass, illustrating his father also on horseback, gliding past him with no regard- clad in a tattered blanket with his head down. He holds a horn, a fire within ‘the way people used to do’ that he expresses being the color of the moon. Bell says he somehow knew his father was going out to build a fire ‘in all that dark and cold’, and that whenever he’d get there, he’d see him too.

“And then I woke up.”

Something many of us wish we could do.

When you’re the namesake of a film- or even vice versa- it is more often than not expected by audiences that the main character is the primary storyteller of said film. He or she is expected to make an entrance, speak loudly, stand straight, and deliver the most poignant of one-liners at the most humorously-sound times (especially if they’re of an inappropriate caliber). But what of those who stand beside ‘The Namesake’? What is expected of the second or even third credit that follows beneath the star of a feature?

In the blistering summer of 1986- one of the most culturally significant, thrill-riding, ahead of its time-films was released under that decade’s most influential director: John Hughs. Barely breaching an hour and a half in runtime- Ferris Buellers Day Off is the firsthand account of one teenage boy’s determination to play the most epic game of hooky; sworn to make his senior year a memorable one. We follow the consistently wall-breaking narrative of his grand scheme to not only fool his parents into leaving him home ‘sick’, but to bring his junior-year girlfriend, Sloane (portrayed by Mia Sara), and life-long best friend Cameron (portrayed by Alan Ruck), along with him. By the grace of God- and Ferris’ top-notch manipulation skills- we utilize Mr. Frye’s (Cameron’s father) 1961 Ferrari California Spyder to navigate through the bustling streets and city of Chicago, with which our Three Musketeers visit the Willis Tower Observation Deck, Chicago Board of Trade, Chez Quis (fictional restaurant), Wrigley Field, and a roaring uptown parade. However, of all these locations, none of them provided as much emotional, creative, and retrospective prowess as the sequence of scenes filmed at The Art Institute of Chicago.

For nearly 2 entire minutes we split from the onrush of synthesized soundtracks, arresting smash cuts, and jocose performances; trickling into an evocative arrangement of scenes that stands out against the rest of the film’s runtime like pastel colors on a stark-white canvas. The dialogue fades into The Dream Academy’s cover of The Smith’s 1984 indie-pop classic ‘Please, Please, Please, Let Me Get What I Want’, as all other bursts of previous action are diluted into 5–10 second stills. A line of schoolchildren, each of unique ethnicities and dress trailing across a wide shot hand in hand where Ferris, Sloane, and Cameron are interjected within their queue. They’re teenagers, sure. Somewhat funny-looking amongst a line of first graders. However, it’s the way the children so simply integrate them into their lot that makes this scene so charming. Kids; so often unbiased and thoughtless of their surroundings. After all, our core 3 are still kids themselves. Despite what they deny and say

Cut to a succession of 10 still-shots, all of different paintings hung enclosed in ornate golden frames, each so vastly separate from the last that it’s difficult to draw an emotional connection between them and the film being watched. From that, we smash cut into one of the movie’s most iconic stills, where the trio infamously mimics Auguste Rodin’s statue, Portrait of Balzac (see above). Teenagehood is a lot of things. It is being a follower, a leader, an influencer, a deviation. Living a teenager is living in the shadows cast by the adults around you, and imitating their flashiest behaviors, truly convinced that it is those traits that will sell you as one, too. Cameron in the back, Sloane between them, and Ferris taking up the broader scope of the shot- filling in all possible dead space, for he is the main character. Is it not his right to occupy the expanse of his own film?

Subsequently is another group shot of the three juxtaposed in front of more abstract pieces. Sloane stands straight- feet turned outward and her hands curled amiably over one-another in her lap. In front of her, a speculative painting of a woman sat in some broad, wingback-chair, a belt looped around her torso just like her own. Of all three paintings, Sloane’s is the only one with a specific gender depicted. Her position is poised and observant, in a way almost certain of what it is she is looking upon. As a young girl breaching womanhood- she is surely experiencing the ‘great expectations’ of what it is to grow into one, already verbally claimed by Ferris as his future wife (of which he comments on several occasions), and seemingly aware of the methods in which she can weaponize her femininity (we recall her interaction with Principle Rooney as she was leaving the school). Confident yet gentle- as she is anticipated to be, and as she is portrayed.

Front and center as usual, is Ferris. His frame is strewn tall- and high, yet somehow unsure. His arms laid lackadaisically at his sides; palms slightly unfurled. With a forward-facing stance he looks upon the geometric strokes and angles pictured in the piece before him. Between both Cameron and Sloane- Ferris is the only one with unoccupied hands, neither curled in front of him nor crossed along his chest. His position is desultory; vacant and featureless in comparison to those around him. It seems that in this fleeting moment of silent observation- he finds himself witless in front of something he cannot describe, somehow unable to find the appropriate one-liner to disperse the thickness of thought. Just like the painting in front of him, his nature serves only to humor the minds of others. The warps and twists that live in his character are as geometric in pattern as they are in depiction. Ferris is cunning, seemingly unbridled by the encroaching responsibility of adulthood and the wounding notion that these impetuous springtime days will dim into his youth, meant to be forgotten. Despite his rip-roaring sayings and boisterous morality- he is unsure of where he should go, or even where he should be. Like the majority of boys his age, Ferris figures he would be this way forever: lost in the noise of his own voice and messily traversing the endless possibilities of childhood and chance.

To the far right is our Namesake’s right-hand-man and favorite behavioral enabler- Cameron Frye. Unlike both Sloane and Ferris- Cameron has no idea who he is and doesn’t pretend to. Cameron doesn’t dress himself by showful means, nor does he assume the least of those around him in order to appease his own ego. His oversized #9 Howe Red Wings jersey is tucked sloppily into the side of his khaki pants. His arms- folded along the expanse of his chest- guarded. Cameron may not know who he is like Sloane, or have the brave-hearted convictions of Ferris- but he’s well-off for the rest of his natural life! While we never really get an exact disclosure on the kind of relationship he has with both parents, Cameron makes many comments and on numerous occasions stresses the sheer detriment of his father’s possessiveness not over his wife or son- but of his belongings. “My father spent three years restoring this car. It is his one love, it is his passion,” he laments to Ferris when they discover the automobile in his dad’s garage at the start of the film. Cameron often wishes he was Ferris. He wishes he could so simply take what isn’t his and always find some slick-spoken way to defend himself, as he so rarely does. Cameron’s skull is bendable- barely sturdy and hardly that of a bull. When he stands before the swirls and softened-strokes of the abstract illustration, he sees the lack of borders and hard-edges that he recognizes in himself. He is hesitant, even now, to truly assess the nature of the art before him, perhaps even scared to make any sort of assertion at all.

It is directly after this scene that we receive one of the most eerily captivating, and relevant scenes in what I consider to be modern teenage cinema. Intercut with one another is first, an image of both Sloane and Ferris (pictured left) sat in the lower half of a shot in front of a deep-blue stained-glass window, pink-ish doves, and green florals paneled above their heads. With each cut we see them draw nearer and nearer to one another before Ferris eventually leans in for a gentle, supple-hearted kiss that frames in closer and closer as the interaction increases in clumsiness in that juvenile, teenage-way. There is little we know about their relationship, and even less we know about when it truly began. All we are told definitely is that Sloane is a year younger, still having another year of high school left to complete, while Ferris is currently preparing to graduate. While we are only limited to the analysis of the 1 hour and 30 minute film, we can probably evaluate that the coupling was initiated by Ferris himself, and though Sloane is so thoroughly presented as self-assured and independent, it is no secret the amount of affection shared between them, as well as the amount of interest Ferris feels toward Sloane when they’re together, so often plucking her from the ground and into his arms, or fiending after her through humorous means.

Interposed second is probably, if not, the most thought-provoking and curious scene progression of the entire film. What is at first a wide shot of Cameron Frye standing at the bottom left corner of the frame, staring at the solitary illustration A Sunday on La Grande Jatte, by Georges Seurat. From our point of view being limited to only the profile of his back- in a millisecond turn-around we are treated to 1 of 4 face-shots, each panning inward closer and closer to Cameron’s features. In the furthest shot, he looks upon the painting in awe- perhaps his mind staggers at the size of the canvas, or sheer skill of such an immense piece, at first- simply pondering the physicality of it. His eyes are drawn in, ostensibly enthralled by the singular small child centered within the painted rays of light; facing toward some anticipating audience unknown to her, and however known by Cameron- her onlooker. His face contorts in some minimal way- warping from that shallow expression of awe- to a genuine look of perplexity.

It is sometimes a trying thing to define the line between art, and one’s reality. We recognize the reality lived by the artist- yet find ourselves escaping the thought of its relativity to us, entirely. How could something so vast- so flooding in color and beauty- represent our own miserable truths? How could someone of such immense artistic caliber and lucid ability illustrate the patterns of your soul so intimately? So specific in color and shape?

When we first meet Cameron, it is over a call with Ferris- actually absent from school due to a real illness. Upon expressing the inconvenience of his current state- he is abruptly interrupted by the demanding Ferris- exclaiming, “I’m sorry about that, now come pick me up!”. It seems that this is a regular occurrence, as Ferris simply hangs up on him, Cameron whispering to himself a taxing: “I’m dying,” before Ferris conveniently calls him back to add- “You’re not dying, you just can’t think of anything good to do.”

According to Bueller- Cameron has ‘a lot to do’ before graduation; can’t be ‘wound up this tight’ when he heads to college. Ferris expresses on numerous occasions the true extent of his friend’s anxiety, making humorous jabs such as, “Pardon my French, but Cameron is so uptight that if you stuck a lump of coal up his ass- in two weeks you’d have a diamond.” The film is absolutely littered with dismissive remarks on Cameron’s demeanor, not just from his best friend himself- but off-handed comments made by his girlfriend, Sloane, as well. In fact- Cameron’s apprehension and emotional vulnerability are actually the sole items that drive the film’s events. Ferris bored by himself at home? Convince a sick Cameron to come over anyway. Ferris wants his girlfriend over too? Have Cameron call the principle pretending to be her father. Ferris wants something to do? Talk Cameron into letting them take his father’s prized automobile out on the town. Sloane and Ferris want to ditch the car to find more entertainment? Leave said car with reckless strangers with only the trust of a 5-dollar bill keeping it safe, completely against his wishes. Every single activity, adventure, misadventure, and dare I say- shenanigan- that the trio get into is at the exact cost, and sometimes spite, of Cameron’s expressed anxieties.

Ferris Buellers Day Off may be the tale of one boyish teenager’s escapades about his nearby cityscape as if the world were his own personal oyster, sure, it could be that simple- just that juvenile. Except it isn’t. Our blustering Namesake’s best friend follows his loud-mouthed partner around the entire film like a young puppy following its negligent caretaker; simply unable to put his own foot down. Ferris Buellers Day Off isn’t just about Ferris, or his one-liners. Hell- it isn’t even about his ability to fake an illness or his carpe diem-esque outlook on life. It’s about his relationships- more specifically how he manipulates them to craft his perfect unpaid sabbatical. Cameron sits, Cameron stays, Cameron always comes for Ferris. When he’s advised against anything- anything at all by the advice of his best friend- Ferris refuses, wielding some half-thought quip humoring his very real and valid fears. “I’m bullshit,” he says to Ferris in his father’s garage after they attempt to regain the car’s miles it’d lost. “I put up with everything. My old man pushes me around,” he solemns- at the brink of tears, not yet falling. “…I never say anything!” he shouts before adding, “He’s not the problem- I’m the problem.”

There’s this translucent fear- some under-the-skin unease surrounding the idea of one’s dad. Some fathers bellow, others mumble. Some throw, others point. Some fathers possess a personhood so governing that you feel it linger even when he’s so often absent. Cameron is unable to feel his own gumption when they drive his father’s car, just as he is unable to recognize his own trust when he lets Ferris lend it to someone else to look after. He cannot recall his own hilarity when he teases folks at the restaurant, and he cannot identify his own artistic wonder when he’s peering into a thing he does not have the words to explain. “I am not gonna sit on my ass as the events that affect me unfold to determine the course of my life- I’m gonna take a stand.” Cameron studies his own reflection in the hood of that 1961 Ferrari California Spyder, and swears he is going to seize such an opportunity by the throat- and confront his father about the damage they’d done, claiming he’d “have to deal” with him. With a whopping 17 blows to the grill, Cameron releases every ache- every turn-away thought, feeling, notion, fear he’s felt for his father and the car he so often loves more than his own son- as he kicks it out of sight, and out of mind. Literally. The cherry-red Ferrari plummets out of a large second-story glass panel and onto the wooded earth below- rupturing in both sound and mechanism. The whole film- the entire enabling of this 1-and-a-half-hour joyride, culminating into a heaping pile of broken steel and thousand-dollar parts.

There’s something poetic about the day just had, something almost metaphorical surrounding the hidden complexity just beneath Matthew Broderick’s credit. There’s an idea that maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t truly about this day of hooky- played amongst a sea of other hooky’s that year. Perhaps the possibility that the car, the stops, the parade- was all some grander road to redemption, guaranteeing a satisfying arc of the last fan of Ferris Bueller. Someone who didn’t see him as a hero, or even an amputee- just a best friend.