Ed Wood

Despite a slew of gothic horror films that focus on idiosyncratic loners who find love and inspiration in a woman's identification with them, Tim Burton's Ed Wood (1994) remains his best and most personal film. Rather than relying on special effects to express a character's emotions, as he has all too unfortunately done in films like Edward Scissorhands and the first two Batman features, here Burton finally spends time on developing out a bond that exists between an aging star and man who will only ironically become a star.

Ed Wood (Johnny Depp), an aspiring filmmaker whose ambition is matched only by his putrid grasp of talent, befriends aging actor Bela Lugosi (Martin Landau). As Wood tries to break into the film industry and get his vision financed, he cares for Lugosi, whose health keeps worsening with age and self-abuse. Burton's film follows Wood through his horrendous early work, culminating in the brilliant fascimile to Plan Nine From Outer Space, Wood's film that lovingly possesses the title of "Worst Film of All Time" for its utter ineptitude.

The nuance of Wood and Lugosi's friendship, really, is what defines this film and allows it to become something more than an homage to one of the worst filmmakers of all time. Even after a friendship proves costly and becomes a hindrance to the advancement of Wood's professional life, Wood remains steadfast in his devotion to the friend. Ultimately, this devotion transcends mockery and becomes touching, since, whatever Wood's faults, he always meant well. Indeed, his gang of freaks and "actors," if that word can be used, are those that the world has cast out, and so the idea that Burton identifies with this character is less than shocking.

This is a bio-pic that revels in Wood's delusional fantasies and attacks on highbrow artistry. As such, it becomes a film that possesses true value to filmmakers like Burton, who clearly understands the desire to direct a piece of cinema that is less than revolutionary simply because it's got a great idea somewhere in it. Yet, for the first time in his career, Burton also succeeds in bringing the humanity of the characters to the screen. This is a wonderful film, though it drags a little toward the end.

Ed Wood: 8.5/10

Suspicion

The success of Alfred Hitchcock's Suspicion (1941) lies in one word and one word only, and that is the pet phrase that Johnnie (Cary Grant) calls Lina (Joan Fontaine), his wife: "monkeyface." Never marry your spouse until you can call them "monkeyface" and not end up sleeping on the couch.

In this film, Johnnie Aysgarth woos Lina, much to the dismay of her parents, who understand that Lina is marrying down in class. However, their love is too great for such a problem, at least, that is, until Lina realizes that Johnnie is a perpetual putz who refuses to work or otherwise support the family, so that the income from the family is derived entirely from Lina's parents. When Lina's father dies, Johnnie anticipates an inheritance that never comes, so Lina begins to fear that Johnnie is engineering accidents and brushes with death specifically so that he can inherit the insurance money.

Hitchcock is able to create a nice sense of suspense and doubt in the central conflict between spouses, and Fontaine deserves the acclaim that she has gotten for her role, but the end shift of the film turns into a deflated exercise in empty suspense and drama. Whereas in the book that the film was adapted from Lina knew that Johnnie was a murderer, and so she accepted a poisoned drink that he offered her, thereby killing herself and their unborn child rather than bring the baby into this world with a father as a serial killer, Hitchcock unsatisfactorly posits that these signs that Lina read into Johnnie were all chance and misread events, so that the two drive away, happily ever after, understanding each other anew in their relationship.

What this amounts to, then, is a pointless pandering to the audience, wherein the film manipulates our core emotions but never displays confidence in the ending that it is building toward. As a result, the end of this film is a big copout, and results in little response beyond a sighing "meh." But on the bright side, try out "monkeyface" on your loved one. It's a good experiment.

Suspicion: 5.5/10

Flowers of Shanghai

Hou Hsiou-hsien's Flowers of Shanghai (1998) is a film that is self-contained, so that it is purposely limited to scenes at a Chinese brothel in the 1880s. Examining the harsh reality of life inside the brothel, where women entertained men yet always played second-fiddle to the flippant desires of men's wandering eye, the camera never leaves the confinement of the interior walls, and, in this way, Hou articulates the isolation that exists alongside the extravagence.

"Aunties" would purchase these girls from their destitute parents at puberty and beautify them, making certain that the girls, later called "flowers," would be able to entertain and please the upper class men who visited the brothel. The women, for their part, received much opulence from their suitors and would frequently keep a suitor for several years, which allowed the woman to secure her place at the brothel but also paid for the family back home. Hou grants that the flower girl for the women in this film was seen as a position of privilege, in that she could guarantee her parents and relatives an income apart from whatever meager offerings that they could manage.

Because of the opulent lifestyle, there is a manner in which the women are actually given agency and a sense of power, though if they are not able to connive themselves into a privileging state, they will languish in despair. One of the suitors, the melancholic Wang (Tony Leung) is shifting loyalties between Emerald (Michelle Reis) and the younger Crimson (Michiko Hada). However, Emerald will have none of it, and the way in which she connives Wang into continuing their five year long relationship testifies to the authority that she wields around the house. There are four concurrent stories at work in Flowers of Shanghai, and Hou balances them all into a narrative that is elegant, elliptical, and deeply understated, though always riveting.

There is a formalism at work in the film, so that emotions and lives are stated with a minimalist touch, repeating scenes where the men play Mah jong while the women look on, drinking, gossiping, but underneath this surface there exists an emotional core to Hou's film that is deeply resonant. Very fascinating, though the style may be challenging at first.

Flowers of Shanghai: 10/10

My Life to Live

The chief signifier, as well as the key to subjectivity itself in film, lies in the human face. Jean-Luc Godard, being the wilely connoisseur of everything cinema related, has long understood this fact, and so when the opening act of his film My Life to Live (1962) repudiates any shot of identification vis-a-vis close-ups of the human face, and instead focuses on the back of the human head, it becomes clear that Godard is self-consciously distancing the viewer while also expressing the lack of individual will and agency within the heroine of the film.

So much of this film is about inexpressed or inadequately articulated desire. Comprised of 12 self-contained tableauxs, or vignettes, our heroine, Nana Kleinfrankenheim (Anna Karina), observes early on in the film that "The more one talks, the less the words mean," and this observation epitomizes the entirety of Nana's existence, so that whenever she strives to understand an idea or an action, she more often merely confuses the issue. Hidden inside the tale of Nana's descent into prostitution lies a film deeply concerned with the matter of language and reason, and Godard fashions Nana as his accomplice in questioning the nature of language.

The camera often denies Nana angles wherein her facial features are highlighted, and, again, this self-reflexive act allows Godard to critique his heroine's lack of agency for herself. Instead, she is continually dependent on and displayed as the object of others, so that any positive self-worth she might possess is neutralized and made irrelevant. Though her status of prostitute later in the film enforces this position, Godard makes it clear that it is Nana as an individual who lacks self-expression and desire.

Yet because this is still Godard, there are passages of extreme beauty and vitality, such as the dance sequence around a pool table wherein Nana harnesses an innocence and simplicity that become infectious. Additionally, the philosophical debate between Nana and the old man in the restaurant, as well as the reading of Edgar Allan Poe, allow the film a depth and self-reflexive commentary on the nature of cinema as art. When Poe's narrator is confronted with the desire to either save the art or destroy the art in order to save the human being who influenced it, the narrator destroys the art. In this same manner, Godard, who was married to actress Anna Karina for some years, also examines this same scenario, in that she will either live on in the art (cinema) or in life (reality), but not in both. The ending answers which choice Godard made.

Beyond these scenes, there is the marvelous tableaux where Nana goes to the cinema to view Dreyer's The Passion of Joan of Arc (1928), which should be a sign to those viewing the film on its commentary on martyrs and martyrdom. In the end, this film is, simply put, a wonderful film, full of the customary asides and self-reflexiveness that Godard is famous for, but My Life to Live is also deeply human. See it.

My Live to Live: 10/10

Hour of the Wolf

Ingmar Bergman's Hour of the Wolf (1968) is a psychological study of an artist who is slowly losing his mind. However, far from settling upon this easy formula of the tortured artist, Bergman expands the idea by incorporating the artist's wife as a central figure to the trauma.

Johan Borg (Max von Sydow) and Alma Borg (Liv Ullman) have retreated to a windy island so that Johan might recover from the tortured and pathological haunting that continually plagues him. Though he seems at first able to stave off the visions and fantasies, Alma actually begins to find herself participating in these nightmarish trauma, which further leads to their traumatic event. As such, both spouses struggle to maintain a semblance of reality, even as they both find themselves being consumed by the terrifying presence of insanity.

The title, of course, refers to that time between night and dawn, and in this manner the film comes closest to acting as a traditional horror film, but here, as with all of Bergman's films, the horror is entirely internal. There may be external forces at work, but the embodiment of horror always comes from the character's subconscious, so that the lingering effects of terror come from inside Johan and Alma. Ultimately, the film is interested in examining when spouses must shed their partner for their own survival, and Bergman gives Ullman many a fantastic monologue.

Hour of the Wolf at times confuses or bewilders the viewer, but a persistent examination of the film reveals a cohesive whole that allows the effects of love and trauma to battle it out. The film works beautifully as a meditation on love, art, the pathology of the artist, and the devoted but not self-destructive spouse. Very haunting stuff.

Hour of the Wolf: 8.5/10

Wings of Desire

Wim Wenders' Wings of Desire (1987) is a film where the angel Damiel (Bruno Ganz) slowly muses on the nature of our world's humanity, afterlife, and his desire to shed all of his former life in order to glimpse a taste of genuine human love. Because this is essentially a fall from grace story that subverts expectations vis-a-vis its celebration of humanness rather than the transcendent, Wenders generates some fascinating ideas, but overall the ideas never become more than the sum of their parts.

The film is technically superb, but the philosophy that underpins the film is so strong that, once the angel sacrifices his place to be alongside humanity and specifically the female mortal Marion (Solveig Dommartin), the film somehow suffers for me. It's not exactly a loss of those philosophical ideas that denies the film a continued interest, but rather a juxtaposition between hard-edged realism (in terms of grimy living) once Damiel begins to live on earth and a more comical story focusing on Peter Falk (playing a version of himself). This contrast never quite reconciles itself for me, unfortunately.

Instead, those scenes which are most effective take place when Damiel is still an angel and in the library, where angels keep guard on their charges. Other powerful scenes are those where he tries to prevent a man desiring suicide from acting out on this impulse. These aspects are given filmic power with ease, and allow Wenders an ability to offer true commentary on society and religion that blends itself seemlessly with rambling poetics.

As such, it is the execution of Marion's speech at the end that, rather than seeming transcendent (like the closing speeches in Paris, Texas), instead never quite reaches those same heights. This is still a strong, strong film, and gorgeously shot throughout, but certainly not in the same league as Paris, Texas.

Wings of Desire: 7.5/10

All or Nothing

Mike Leigh's All or Nothing (2002) returns Leigh to his more socioeconomic roots and steps away from the ambivalence of naked emotion that occasionally led Career Girls to flounder in a less than stellar narrative. Here the lower middle class are hindered by a lack of connection, communication, and true intimacy. Instead, they seek methods of escape as various as lying, ditching work, and harboring deep-seeded anger at their spouses.

Indeed, most of the characters self-destruct in fits of apathy and aggression, so that only Penny (Lesley Manville) comes away with a real appeal to honesty; and even she is unable to recognize that in the midst of her son's heart attack her daughter is also slowly deteriorating. Only those who are most clearly deteriorating are cared for emotionally, so that those who do not speak up are left to wither, never understanding that honest communication can bridge so many of the concerns that eat at them.

Leigh does a solid job, Timothy Spall's face as Phil is as expressive as ever, but the film never quite achieves the transcendent heights of Secrets and Lies or Naked. Instead, the film uncovers concerns of the lower class and dwells on them without ever truly positioning their concerns as those of everyone. As such, Leigh creates a distancing effect that is more than he truly desires to create, and this is the film's ultimate lack. It is strong, but never quite exceptional in the way that it aspires to be.

All or Nothing: 8/10

Withnail and I

Bruce Robinson's Withnail and I (1987) is a film where 1960s British unemployed actors never demonstrate the slightest act of ambition, instead preferring to scam their way into drink and housing and slumming. This is not a film to be observed for its narrative, though. The narrative is really just fodder for bemused observations, glorious quotes (“I demand booze” and “How do we make it die?” among others), creative changes of heart, beautiful imagery, and a road trip that is thoroughly entertaining.

The house where Withnail (Richard E. Grant) and Marwood (Paul McGann) live before their prolonged journey to the countryside is a cankerous clutter, buried under mounds of trash, and the humor of the film largely derives from Withnail’s ability to push headlong into certain disaster with full contentment, no matter the travesties that are just behind him. Withnail’s gay uncle, Monty, who has supplied them the countryside house, has been promised a night with Marwood by Withnail in compensation for the slumming, and the conniving treachery with which Withnail mediates his life is headed a collision with the long-suffering Marwood.

This being the first Bruce Robinson film I’ve seen, though having heard good things about this film for about a year now, I was interested in how the film balanced the decadence of the 60s era together with the obsolescence that faces everything that Withnail and Marwood have always stood for. Interesting, despite the copious humor of the film, the film actually acts as an elegy for past friendships, for the failure of generations to grow with the times. Yet all of Withnail’s treachery and anachronisms are observed with a melancholy eye, so that Marwood understands that these times, despite his having to dodge the enamored gaze of Monty, are rooted in joyousness.

Withnail and I’s balance between tragedy and uproarious laughter, then, becomes a complicated affair, since an over-reliance on either tendency damns the whole film to mediocrity. The writing and performances, especially Grant’s performance, though, are masterful, and the film achieves a peculiar sensibility of mourning when Withnail and Marwood bid farewell. The bitter heart of Withnail seems unlikely to find reconciliation after Marwood’s exit, and Withnail is such an offensive but intriguing pathology that we want to discover new or lost adventures to be lost with him.

Withnail and I: 10/10

Pulse

Kiyoshi Kurosawa's Pulse (2001, initially released as Kairo) bathes the audience in a perpetual blanket of eerie, barely suppressed terror. Though the film begins with a supernatural presence terrorizing citizens from the internet, that presence soon becomes more powerful and ever-present, becoming an incalculable force. As such, Kurosawa blends his traditional themes of isolation, alienation, and psychological recovery into a nightmarish film wherein human connection is the only thing that separates us from dissolving into immateriality.

Ryosuke Kawashima (Haruhiko Katô) is a typical slacker college youth who finally decides to hook up the internet for some sort of connection to the rest of the world. However, he is soon put on edge when the computer mysteriously boots up a haunted image of a cloaked figure. Kawashima finds help in Harue Karasawa (Koyuki), a fellow student who is trying to understand the growing phenomenon of the cloaked figures. Eventually, they come to realize that the spirits of the dead have no more haven in the afterlife and are now coming back to terrorize the living into insanity and suicide so that they can lay claim to earth. Meanwhile, Michi Kudo (Kumiko Aso) is struggling to maintain her sanity in the greenhouse where she works as she witnesses untold sights of horror and shock.

Kurosawa continuously builds the tension by alluding to events, such as the red tape, the forbidden room, the utter seclusion from the world, prior to actually revealing them to be central to the free-flowing narrative, which lets him ratchet up the story in subtle shifts. Rather than the “boo” factor present in American horror films, here Kurosawa relies on our susceptibility to the dark, hiding his most disturbing imagery in the shadows so that they are only revealed once the camera or the character moves, so that it is the character, and not the director, who orchestrates the curdling pressure as the film reaches its peak.

There are some who feel the film lacks a narrative drive, that it repeats itself unnecessarily with the same scares, but the film is more sophisticated than that. Beyond extrapolating out an conscious fear of technology and a desolate sense of abandonment, Kurosawa lets his story become one of intimacy, detailing how those who remain together pose the greatest possibility for survival. While it might be presumptive to suggest that the film wields a certain Darwinian link between human connection and survival, it seems obvious that Kurosawa wants to posit the idea that emotional intimacy can obviate thoughts of suicide or torture.

The last ten minutes of this film contain some of the most apocalyptic and powerful images that I have ever come across, and the whole film succeeds because of this go-for-broke approach. This is one of the most fascinating and horrific films you’ll ever see, so see it.

Pulse: 10/10

To Die For

Gus Van Sant's To Die For (1995) is a study on the nature of celebrity culture, the parasitic control of pride, ambition over talent, envying a life beyond one's reach, and the incalculable mistake of ever screwing over the mafia.

In small-town New Hampshire, Suzanne Stone (Nicole Kidman) romances the Italian and middle-class Larry Maretto (Matt Dillion). Suzanne's ambition, however, is far from being existent as a trophy-wife, despite Larry's promise that he can take care of all her needs. Rather than becoming a bearer of children and not much else, Suzanne desires to become famous and be on television, no matter what the cost. She parlays a local gig as the weatherman into a documentary on what's affecting area high school youth, including Jimmy Emmett (Joaquin Phoenix), and soon concocts a plan wherein Jimmy murders her husband by promising eternity to Jimmy.

If all of this sounds like a normal narrative, screenwriter Buck Henry (noted for his adaptations of The Graduate and Catch-22) and van Sant create a panoramic documentary style to the whole affair, where characters talk to the camera (highlighting the media's omnipresence) and relate how the murder transpired. The film works simultaneously as a character study of Suzanne's unending desire for media acclaim and successs, but also as an ode to the excess and decadent decade of the 90's and its near-singular focus on creating media sensations who would in turn emulate the lifestyle that van Sant is critiquing.

The film ends wonderfully, with a great cameo by director David Cronenberg in another of his smooth but deadly walk-on roles, and the entirety of the film smoothly balances broad comedy with bitter satire. Good stuff.

To Die For: 8/10

Shopgirl

Based upon his novella, Steve Martin’s Shopgirl (2005), though directed by the talented Anand Tucker, is nonetheless a film that is thoroughly influenced by the artistic sensibilities of Martin. Like Bill Murray before him, Martin has matured from the bland comedic roles (the Cheaper by the Dozen remakes are an exception) of his past into a middle-aged man anchored by melancholy and regret. And those sensibilities allow him to craft a story that plays as part character study and part elegy for the past.

Mirabelle Buttersfield (Claire Danes) is a country girl from Vermont who moves out to California to pursue a bigger career with her artwork. Alas, she spends more time trying to make ends meet working at the Glove department in Saks Fifth Avenue than she does with her true passion. While fending off the amorous attention of Jeremy Kraft (Jason Schwartzman, in yet another of a long string of overly quirky but overall effective performances), a slacker who lacks motivation to do anything until Mirabelle imparts words of wisdom, Mirabelle finds herself romanced by Ray Porter (Steve Martin), a wealthy middle-aged businessman who desires passion and company over long-term commitment. Obviously, this will result in heartbreak, but the film does handle the majority of romance tropes subtly.

What makes the film work is that, rather than simply being about love absolute, this film starts to identify characteristics of psychological damage as the true motivations for the characters’ search for love and tenderness. Mirabelle is using anti-depressants to ward off her darker tendencies; Jeremy is using attraction to try to get to a more complete persona, and Ray is using Mirabelle to combat his loneliness, rewarding her with gifts that dance precariously around the issue of her (essentially prostituted) love. Yet the disparate ideas between paternal affection that he shows her, coupled with the distance that he maintains emotionally, forces the point that Martin as writer wants to drive home: that relationships cannot last if one of the partners holds him or herself back in any way. As a result, the stunted emotions that Ray cannot bring himself to verbalize around Mirabelle will ultimately doom their chances.

Shopgirl is sophisticatedly sexy throughout, maintains a gentle pacing throughout that matches its artistic sensibilities (check out the exaggerated lighting in Mirabelle’s room for the film’s artsiness), and is simply a tender character study. Not quite perfect in its balance between drama and humor, but it’s damn good throughout.

Shopgirl: 7.5/10

The Sentinel

So there's really no reason for a film like The Sentinel (2006) to exist. It lacks dramatic tension, evolving characters, motivated villains, British accents, and emotional investment.

If a film aspires to be more than a standard affair in the political thriller genre, it needs to examine the inner psychology of its protagonists, rather than rely on the threat to their professional career, which, let's be honest, no one cares about. So if the film starts considering more of why every character is divorced or having an affair with another character (i.e. Michael Douglas' main character with Kim Basinger's President's Wife), then we have some sort of internal struggle being played out. Unfortunately, the film stays on the peripheral level with regard to these more fundamental questions, instead thinking that showing Eva Longoria's character slowly putting on more and more clothes as the film progresses is what we want to see.

The film never really provides dramatic twists in the who's-behind-it-all department, when there's easily three or four twists that could be generated from this material. Alas, this film feels more like a first draft of a script than most thriller movies out there.

There's something interesting about Kiefer Sutherland's constant hunting for Douglas' character because Kiefer's blames Douglas for the failure of his marriage, but all this is sketched out rather than really developed. As such, the film relies on the ol- ex-KGB crap, and leads to the middle of nowhere. The only interesting facet of this film is that Longoria does not end up with either Douglas or Sutherland, which is almost a progressive move on the filmmakers' part. But, again, this move is also why no one cares about the film. The Sentinel does offer one possibility which subverts any claims of ironic progressivenes: take a swig of beer every time a minority FBI or military African American is shot/blown up and you'll be mighty drunk by the end of the movie.

The Sentinel: 4/10

Bright Future

In Kiyoshi Kurosawa's Bright Future (2003), Yuji (Jô Odagiri) and Mamoru (Asano Tadanobu) are wayward twentysomethings who find themselves struggling to maintain jobs and empathy in the world around them. Neither man can articulate the loss of order that he feels, save for a beautiful opening scene that Yuji narrates, and both instead seem bent on self-destruction. When Mamoru intervenes for an action that he knows Yuji will carry out, the murder of a family who were unable to connect with Yuji, we see elements of Albert Camus’ The Stranger find their way into the film’s philosophy. The idea of murder here retains a peculiar absence of meaning, yet Kurosawa is adept at building the film from that foundation and expanding it into an exploration on the nature of abandonment, guilt, and ultimately redemption.

Yet the film never feels forced. Mamoru is clearly pathological, but he’s loving to Yuji while retaining elements of psychopathology at the same time. This dualism fosters most of the fascinating aspects of the film in that director Kiyoshi Kurosawa frames the central struggle around Yuji’s attempt to nurture the red jellyfish that Mamoru bequeathed to him just before Mamoru went on the killing spree. The love and anger that are shown to the jellyfish tell of a displaced love, but such fragmented feelings soon develop into something more profound and concerned.

Perhaps only the film’s ending disappointed me, even as it also felt inevitable. Faced with the guilt over being unable to provide for his family after a divorce, Mamoru’s father befriends Yuji and tries to right him. Yet at the end he steps into a lake where the jellyfish is escaping into and is stung by the poisonous creature as he picks it up in a euphoric connection with his (now dead) son. While this action returns to an earlier idea of a father being stung by the son’s creature (remember the factory’s boss attempt to touch the jellyfish), the film had earned a more hopeful ending in my mind. As a result, though this scene depressed me a little, I was still very pleased with the film and will seek out other Kiyoshi Kurosawa’s films in the future. Very enjoyable and touching.

Bright Future: 8/10

Paths of Glory

Stanley Kubrick's Paths of Glory (1957) is a wonderful illustration of how singular talent and ingenuity can shepard a studio film into a personal and far more fundamental elegy for all those who have sacrificed themselves for pretenses of victory in war. From Humphery Cobb's WWI novel, Kubrick crafts a story that is so precise and powerful that it becomes heartrending in its simplicity.

Gen. Paul Mireau (George Macready) is coerced by his superiors to try to take ground that is nigh-impossible having had national pride and personal reward dangled in front of him. As a result Col. Dax (Kirk Douglas) and his men are ordered to take the Anthill, a heavily-fortified German position. Though the men all understand that this assault is akin to suicide, they nonetheless try. Ultimately, however, Col. Dax and the few survivors are driven back. Gen. Mireau interprets this retreat as pure cowardice, and so he orders that three of Col. Dax's men be made examples of at a military trial. What follows is Col. Dax's attempts to justify his men's actions and prevent their execution under false pretenses.

An obvious criticism for Kubrick is the theme of military dehumanization, where the commanding general Mireau is more concerned with his public image and official record than with his men's lives. Yet, ironically, Mireau is brought to this state by a fellow general, Gen. George Broulard, who will ultimately relieve Mireau of his post, so the chain of needless sacrifice is indeed cyclical and, in the end, utterly human.

What gives this film its emotional power is the humane approach to each of the three men who are forced to be made an example of, as each of the men are distinguishable from the next and belie their own individual traits and fears. The scenes where they beg forgiveness for their sins and receive a final prayer from the priest on hand are well orchestrated, and lead into the final redemptive image, which remains for Kubrick one of the most singular moments of his entire careeer. It is justly memorable, and says more about war, sacrifice, and the human will to understand others than any actual dialogue could.

This is certainly Kubrick's breakthrough in Hollywood, and it remains a powerful example where the director's dedication and fidelity of vision are in concert with his cast. A wonderful film that embodies all that is good about film in the 1950s.

Paths of Glory: 9.5/10