Criterion Corner: Yi Yi (#339) and A Brighter Summer Day (#804)

There are some filmmakers that pop up on your radar again and again – but it takes you a very long time to get around to watching any of their films. There are just too many interesting filmmakers and too many films to check out – and if you’ve got a great local repertory cinema with a well-curated programme, you may even think, “Hey, sooner or later they’ll get around to something by this director on their programme.” Or, indeed, Criterion releases some of the director’s films, so you order them, and once they’ve arrived you put them on your shelf, next to the other Criterion films you’ve not yet got around to watching.

And then years pass, because in the meantime there are so many other films to watch, other directors to check out, other Criterion releases to get excited about and other cinema programmes featuring yet more films and filmmakers to keep you busy.

Until, in this case, your favourite local repertory cinema puts on a series of films from the Taiwanese New Wave, and you finally get to see two films by Edward Yang (well, actually three, though one of these was one episode in the anthology film In Our Time) for the first time – not on TV, played from a Criterion disk, but on a movie screen, as the God of Cinema intended. So this is a bit of a cheat in terms of being a Criterion Corner entry – but I assure you, Yi Yi (2000) has been sitting on my shelf for a long time, and A Brighter Summer Day (1991) is on its way as I write this. And I am already looking forward to revisiting both films in their Criterion releases.

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Criterion Corner: Hud (#1319)

There is a certain thrill to seeing a movie star of tremendous charisma, a leading-man type we’re drawn to, play a character that is offputting. Certain stars we got to know as villains: Willem Dafoe, for instance, or Ralph Fiennes, Alan Rickman or Mads Mikkelsen. The beloved Gary Oldman arguably rose to stardom playing mostly bad guys, even if some of them were tortured and romantic. But there’s a difference when a leading man with leading-man looks appears on the screen – and does something horrible. Remember Henry Fonda’s introduction in Once Upon a Time in the West? Part of what makes that scene so effective is that the sadistic man we see murder a boy in cold blood is portrayed by the actor who played iconic paragons of integrity such as My Darling Clementine‘s Wyatt Earp or 12 Angry Men‘s Juror #8.

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Criterion Corner: Berlin Alexanderplatz (#411)

Is there any other period in German history that feels as unsettlingly familiar in 2026 as the Weimar Republic? It’s become something of a cliché, but it’s frighteningly easy to tell a story about Germany after the First World War and before Hitler seized control of the country that also speaks to the present day: you don’t have to squint hard to see the Weimar Republic as a time akin to ours in many ways. In the years culminating in the Great Depression, authoritarianism and totalitarianism seem more and more attractive to all too many, while others put their heads in the sand and ignore the warning signs. (Stop me if this sounds familiar.) And the time lends itself to telling stories that appeal to audiences: the big-budget neo-noir series Babylon Berlin tells exactly that story, even if it may be too enamoured with its own aesthetic, making something of a fetish out of the period, and there’s Cabaret, the musical (and later film adaptation), based on Christopher Isherwood’s semi-autobiographical novel Goodbye to Berlin, which has been revived recently on the stage, attracting big stars.

During the era itself, too, you’ll find iconic films that are suffused with the anxieties of the day, such as Metropolis (1927) and M (1931), which film geeks will certainly be familiar with. Maybe less familiar, at least to those who didn’t go to school in a German-speaking country, is the 1929 novel Berlin Alexanderplatz by Alfred Döblin, one of the classics of modernist German literature – which Rainer Werner Fassbinder, enfant terrible of New German Cinema, adapted for television in 1980.

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Criterion Corner: The Trial (#1191)

“Someone must have slandered Joseph K., for one morning, without having done anything truly wrong, he was arrested.”

Back when I went to school, it was clear that, at some point, we would be reading something by Franz Kafka – and, at the time at least, chances were it’d either be The Metamorphosis (published in 1915), in which a man wakes up to find himself changed into an enormous insect, or The Trial (published in 1925), that foundational work of paranoid fiction. If I remember correctly, we ended up reading both, though from the time I mostly remember the 1915 novella, perhaps also because of that memorable MTV short from the channel’s “Feed Your Head” series. But while The Metamorphosis still has that deliciously fantastic angle of a man turning into a bug (admittedly, at my current age I find that premise less fantastic than I did as a teen), arguably it’s The Trial that feels the most universal – and its footprints can be found across culture and cinema.

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Criterion Corner: Into the backlog

Oh boy… I’ve not posted one of these in a while – not because I haven’t been watching any Criterion releases, but because… I don’t honestly know. Most likely, it’s just this: sometimes the working week, and whatever else is happening in my life, leaves me with little time and/or energy to sit down and write a post, even if it’s one I’ve been wanting to write. And then a week passes, two weeks, a month, another one – and I’ve missed the moment.

But: while I cannot do these two films justice in full-length posts, I still remember enough about my reactions to them that I can give you my impressions. And if these make you curious, all the better!

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Criterion Corner: Brazil (#51)

Here’s how you make a Brazil: You start with George Orwell’s Nineteen Eighty-Four, the iconic dystopian novel about totalitarianism and mass surveillance. You mix this with the monumental aesthetics of Fritz Lang’s Metropolis. Blend in some Franz Kafka, ideally The Trial. For flavouring, add a healthy dollop of Monty Python’s Flying Circus and a pinch or two of Federico Fellini and Jacques Tati, and finally sprinkle the resulting mess generously with bureaucracy. As the waiter might say: Monsieur, Mesdames: Bon appétit!

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The Five Stages of Backlog Anxiety

There was a point in my mid-40s where I realised: I have so many games purchased on Steam, I will not live to play all of them, at least not unless I start going through them one by one… and not unless I stop buying a single additional game.

And, looking at my collection of films on physical media? The same may be true. I have a bit more of a fighting chance: my library of games on Steam is in part so large because once a game I’m even just mildly interested in is on sale for US$10 or less, I tend to buy it. Films still cost more, especially those highly addictive Criterion releases I can’t seem to do without. Still: I buy films at a higher rate than I watch the films I’ve bought. The same is definitely true for books.

And, frankly: when I realised the extent to which my backlog would survive me? I felt an unsettling sense of vertigo. (And, embarrassingly, I briefly hoped that by the time I’m old, there’d be a way to upload my consciousness into the cloud, where I would then spend eternity working off my backlog.)

This is fine.
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Criterion Corner: The Spy Who Came In from the Cold (#452)

Most people, when asked to think about spy movies, will think of James Bond, of Sean Connery or Roger Moore or Daniel Craig. They’ll think of shootouts and stealth and suave secret agents bedding exotic beauties.

The novels of John Le Carré, inspired and informed by Le Carré’s own work for both MI5 and MI6 in the mid-20th century, are as far from James Bond as one could imagine – though it is just about possible to bend them into something more Bond-like in the name of entertainment, as happened for instance with the TV adaptation of The Night Manager that was released in 2015. As written, Le Carré’s stories are often less thrillers, though they can be thrilling, than tragedies, infused with existentialism, paranoia and a Kafkaesque sense of inevitability. And these are rarely as much in evidence as they are in Martin Ritt’s 1965 adaptation of The Spy Who Came In from the Cold.

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Criterion Corner: Japan Edition

Readers may have noticed a certain pattern over the last couple of Criterion Corner instalments, including the recent not-quite-Criterion Corner post: Japanese ghosts and ghouls in search of revenge and out for ears, farting Japanese pre-teens on a silence strike courtesy of Yasujiro Ozu, the precariousness of the relationship between human beings and nature in a Japanese mountain village. Obviously the main reason for me watching and writing about these was that they’re all good, interesting films – but there was another reason too: we’d been planning to visit Japan for a while, and that visit finally happened over the last few weeks, so in addition to rigorous training at the Duolingo dojo (I can now say that Ken is cool and Naomi is cute in Japanese!), we’ve also been going through some of the Japanese films on my DVD and Blu-ray shelf, including a number of Criterion releases, though barely scratching the surface, and ordering a few additional movies in the process. I.e. while this post is dedicated to a few Japanese films (each treated in shorter format than is usually the case with my Criterion Corner posts), it is likely that a few of the future posts in this series will also be Japan-bound, though probably not all of them in sequence. Already as it is, my Letterboxd account is likely to tell me at the end of the year that a remarkably large percentage of the films I’ll have watched in 2025 will have been Japanese.

So, without much further ado:

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(This is not a) Criterion Corner: Evil Does Not Exist (2023)

It would be futile to assign a genre to Evil Does Not Exist, beyond the most generic catch-all there is. Yes, the film is a drama, but what does that mean? To be honest, the more I think about Ryusuke Hamaguchi’s follow-up to the award-winning Drive My Car (2021), the less I can shake the impression that it is a horror film.

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