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Hi! I'm Atasha :D

I enjoy watching films and shows in my free time. I love tropes that I can easily relate to, such as found family and coming-of-age stories. As a queer person, I also fit the stereotype of eating up every queer media there is (not really, but the chances of me watching it are definitely higher).

Anyway, two films I never get tired of rewatching are Rookie (2023) by director Samantha Lee, a queer sports/romance film. I first saw it in theaters during Cinemalaya, and its relatability, cinematography, and overall storytelling just spoke to me. It is truly a comfort film that brings both hope and warmth while tackling serious topics with such sensitivity. The other film I love is Bottoms (2023) by director Emma Seligman. It’s a comedy film that’s essentially Fight Club for gay people (trust me, it's stupid and funny). Every time I watch it, I can shut my brain off and simply enjoy a unique plot with great performances and sharp dialogue. It doesn’t exactly have a deep message—it’s just a fun watch!

As for the films I’d love to see more of in the future, I’m definitely leaning toward supporting local cinema and productions. With my recent exposure to Filipino media, I trust that it's heading in a wonderful direction, and as I watch it grow, I’d love to explore more of its roots!

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The Mummy (1999) by Dir. Stephen Sommers

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The Mummy (1999) by Dir. Stephen Sommers

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Prior to last Saturday’s screening of The Mummy, I had never seen a single clip of it in my entire life. Sure, I had heard of the title, but nothing more. It turned out to be exactly what I expected—and more!

The film’s plot follows Rick, Evelyn, and her brother Jonathan on their quest to find Hamunaptra. Unfortunately, their adventure takes a turn for the worse, forcing them to battle Imhotep, an ancient priest cursed and mummified for his forbidden love.

One scene that stood out to me was the final battle, where the protagonists fight an army of the undead. The visual effects were particularly impressive. Considering the film was released in 1999, its CGI—if that’s what was used—was mesmerizing. There’s something distinct about it that feels different from the CGI-heavy productions of today. It has also been a while since I’ve seen an action-packed adventure film that truly captures the excitement that The Mummy and similar films from that era delivered.

The attention to detail in bringing this world to life was phenomenal from start to finish. It felt authentic and alive, something no green screen or CGI can fully replicate. The practical effects, intricately built sets, and originality of the material contributed to its immersive experience. Nowadays, it seems inevitable for many films to feel repetitive.

Overall, The Mummy was exceptionally well-made. For a film released before the 2000s, many aspects of its production still hold up today, showcasing the sheer talent and craftsmanship that went into creating it. I'd love to watch it again—this time with subtitles—so I can fully grasp everything happening on screen (hopefully).

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The film follows a small group of characters—a bandit, a woman, her samurai husband, and a woodcutter who claims to have witnessed a crucial event. Each character provides a different version of what happened, particularly regarding a crime that took place in the forest. The conflicting testimonies highlight the fallibility of human memory and perception. Rather than presenting an objective truth, the film reveals how each person distorts reality based on their motivations, biases, and self-interest. This makes it not just a mystery but also a profound commentary on the nature of truth itself.

One of the most striking scenes in the film is the summoning of the samurai’s spirit through a shaman. This moment is particularly unsettling due to its eerie atmosphere, amplified by the cinematography, sound design, and the intensity of the performance. The way the shaman’s body contorts and the ghostly voice of the samurai emerge makes it a haunting moment. The framing of the scene, coupled with the choice of lighting and music, making the supernatural elements feel raw and unsettling rather than theatrical. Another aspect of the film that stands out is how the audience is positioned as the judge. Each confession by the characters invites viewers to evaluate their honesty, making them an active participant in the film rather than a passive observer. This engagement forces us to confront our own biases and how we perceive truth. The film doesn’t provide a clear resolution, which makes it even more thought-provoking.

Having had some experience with filming, I can appreciate the immense challenges Kurosawa and his team must have faced in bringing Rashomon to life. Filmmaking today is already difficult, even with the abundance of references, advanced equipment, and modern techniques. But during the 1950s, without many of these advantages, Kurosawa still managed to create a film that has stood the test of time.The use of weather elements, such as rain, also plays a symbolic role, reflecting the uncertainty and chaos of the characters’ testimonies. The editing and pacing of the film are also worth noting. The way scenes shift between flashbacks and present-day interrogations creates a rhythmic flow that keeps the audience engaged. The only potential downside is that some aspects of the acting may feel exaggerated to modern viewers, but this is more a product of its time rather than a flaw. The dramatic performances align with traditional Japanese theater styles, which emphasize expressive gestures and delivery.

Absolutely. Rashomon is a cinematic masterpiece, not just for its time but even by today’s standards. Its genius lies in multiple areas—the intricacy of the storyline, the depth of its characterizations, the pacing, and the technical choices. The film’s ability to explore human nature and the ambiguity of truth makes it deeply philosophical, yet it remains accessible due to its structure. The cinematography, editing, and use of sound further elevate the experience, making it a work of art that continues to influence filmmakers and storytellers across generations. Given the limitations of the era in which it was made, the film’s impact is even more impressive.

The film reflects many of the gender roles and stereotypes that were prevalent in Japan during the 1950s, particularly in its portrayal of men and women. The film explicitly shows the negative stereotypes of women being treated as objects or possessions, reinforcing the idea that their value is tied to their relationships with men. Women are either trophies to be won or beings whose honor and virtue are determined by the men around them. One scene that particularly highlights this is when the woman expresses that she could only be with either men or none at all. This reveals how societal norms push women into a vulnerable position where they are shamed regardless of their choices. This double standard places women in a no-win situation—either they conform to what society expects of them, or they face humiliation and exclusion. Meanwhile, the men in the film are depicted as dominant figures, taking control of the narrative and asserting their power, whether through violence or manipulation.

There are multiple reasons why Rashomon gained international acclaim. One of the biggest factors is its gripping whodunnit nature—audiences love a good mystery, especially when it challenges them to piece together the truth themselves. The film’s use of the Rashomon effect—where different characters provide conflicting accounts of the same event—keeps viewers engaged and questioning what really happened. Another key reason is its non-linear storytelling. At a time when most films followed a straightforward chronological structure, Rashomon broke conventions by presenting the story through fragmented, contradictory perspectives.

One of the most striking scenes in the film is the summoning of the samurai’s spirit through a shaman. This moment is particularly unsettling due to its eerie atmosphere, amplified by the cinematography, sound design, and the intensity of the performance. The way the shaman’s body contorts and the ghostly voice of the samurai emerge make it an unforgettable and haunting moment. The framing of the scene, coupled with the choice of lighting and music, leaves a lasting impression, making the supernatural elements feel raw and unsettling rather than theatrical. Another aspect of the film that stands out is how the audience is positioned as the judge. Each confession by the characters invites viewers to evaluate their honesty, making them an active participant in the film rather than a passive observer. This engagement forces us to confront our own biases and how we perceive truth. The film doesn’t provide a clear resolution, which makes it even more thought-provoking—leaving us questioning the nature of reality itself.

The Rashomon effect has remained popular in media because it powerfully illustrates the subjectivity of truth. By presenting multiple conflicting perspectives, it challenges audiences to question reliability, memory, and the motivations behind people’s actions. One of the most compelling aspects of this storytelling technique is how it exposes human nature. It reveals how people lie—to others and to themselves—whether out of self-preservation, guilt, or a need to justify their actions. This makes the Rashomon effect a perfect narrative tool for exploring themes of morality, justice, and deception. The appeal also comes from how it immerses the audience. Instead of providing a clear answer, this technique forces viewers to interpret the story on their own, making it feel more interactive. It leaves room for discussion and debate.

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Strangers on a Train (1951) by Dir.  Alfred Hitchcock

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Strangers on a Train (1951) by Dir.  Alfred Hitchcock

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The story follows two strangers on a train who each have personal struggles. Guy Haines, a rising tennis star, is desperate to divorce his unfaithful wife, Miriam, so he can marry Anne Morton, a senator’s daughter. Meanwhile, Bruno Antony is a charming but deeply disturbed man who resents his overbearing father. During their conversation, Bruno proposes a seemingly absurd idea: they should "swap murders"—Bruno will kill Miriam, and in return, Guy will kill Bruno’s father. Since neither would have a direct motive for their respective crimes, they could evade suspicion. While Guy dismisses this as a dark joke, Bruno takes it seriously. What follows is a gripping descent into manipulation, guilt, and psychological torment. Bruno carries out his end of the "deal" by murdering Miriam and then pressures Guy to reciprocate. As Bruno’s obsession escalates, Guy must find a way to clear his name and stop Bruno before it's too late. The story builds to a tense and visually stunning climax, culminating in a fight on an out-of-control carousel.

The climax of the film stood out the most. Considering this was made in the 1950s, the level of suspense and tension was remarkable. The final confrontation on the carousel was masterfully executed, with rapid cuts, close-ups of frightened children, and the dizzying movement of the ride amplifying the chaos. The way the carousel operator gets shot, causing the ride to spin out of control, was an especially thrilling moment that had me glued to the screen.

One of the most impressive aspects of the film was its cinematography. Hitchcock’s visual storytelling was unparalleled, and the decision to show Miriam’s murder through the reflection in her glasses was nothing short of genius. It created a sense of voyeurism and detachment, making the act even more chilling.

Absolutely. Alfred Hitchcock took an already compelling premise and executed it flawlessly. The pacing was tight, with every scene serving a purpose in building suspense. The performances, particularly from Bruno, were chilling and layered. The cinematography and use of reflections, shadows, and framing all contributed to an immersive viewing experience. The film’s psychological depth, tension, and camera work make it a true masterpiece of classic cinema.

The film seamlessly blends elements of thriller, psychological drama, and crime noir to create a gripping viewing experience. As a thriller, it maintains an intense level of suspense, with escalating tension as Bruno manipulates Guy into a trap, building on to the climactic chase scene on the carousel—a prime example of Hitchcock’s mastery in building thrill. At its core, the film is also a psychological drama, delving into themes of obsession, guilt, and duality. Bruno is not just a villain but a complex character whose relentless pressure on Guy exposes his own disturbing persona. Additionally, Strangers on a Train embodies the essence of crime noir, featuring morally ambiguous characters, and a protagonist trapped in a crime he never intended to be part of.

Very interested! Strangers on a Train showcases Hitchcock’s ability to blend suspense, psychological depth, and visual storytelling in a way that feels timeless. In fact, the film almost feels like an allegory for queerness—Bruno’s obsessive attachment to Guy, his flamboyant mannerisms, and the way their relationship is framed suggest a subtext. Given how Hitchcock often explored themes of identity, obsession, and deception, I’d love to watch more of his films, particularly Psycho, Rear Window, Vertigo, and North by Northwest.

I was not able to recognized him, however, I’d love to go back and look for him. These self inserts also remind me of Stan Lee’s cameos in the MCU.

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Amélie (2001) by Dir. Jean-Pierre Jeunet

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Amélie (2001) by Dir. Jean-Pierre Jeunet

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The film follows a young girl named Amélie, who grows up with overprotective parents overly concerned about her heart condition. As a result, she is homeschooled and has a lonely childhood, deprived of interaction with other children. As an adult, she works as a waitress at a small café. One day, she discovers a hidden box of childhood treasures in her apartment and decides to return it to its owner. Seeing the joy this brings, she embarks on a mission to secretly improve the lives of those around her in small but magical ways.

One of the most striking scenes is the opening sequence, where a fast-paced montage introduces Amélie’s world. The film quickly shifts between seemingly random but highly detailed shots, showing small, intimate moments—such as a fly landing on a table, a spoon sinking into a dessert, or her dad peeling wallpaper. These brief but meaningful snapshots establish the whimsical and observational tone of the film while giving insight into the lives of the people around Amélie. This storytelling approach reminded me of the TV show Euphoria, which uses rapid, visually striking sequences to present a character’s background in a matter of seconds while still making them feel fully realized. While Euphoria has a much darker and more intense atmosphere, it shares Amélie’s ability to condense an entire character’s essence into a few well-chosen visuals. It’s possible that Euphoria drew inspiration from Amélie in how it creatively reveals its characters’ personalities and histories.

One of the most notable production choices in Amélie is its color grading. Throughout the film, the cinematography leans towards warm, golden tones, giving the visuals a dreamlike, nostalgic quality. This warm color palette serves a deeper purpose beyond aesthetics—it reflects Amélie’s optimistic worldview, where even mundane, everyday moments are filled with beauty and wonder. Additionally, the warm tones help reinforce the themes of love, hope, and whimsy that define the film. They create an idealized version of Paris, making the city feel like a fairytale setting rather than a completely realistic depiction. However, there are moments when the film contrasts this warmth with cooler or more muted tones, particularly when Amélie is feeling lonely or hesitant, subtly reflecting her internal emotions.

Overall, the film is well made in terms of storytelling, cinematography, and creativity. It excels in crafting a unique and immersive world, blending fantasy with reality in a way that feels both magical and relatable. However, the pacing and length of the film can sometimes feel slow. While individual scenes are filled with energy and quick storytelling, the overall structure is more meandering, focusing on small details and side characters rather than maintaining a tight, fast-moving plot. This can make it feel drawn out at times, and there were moments where I found myself losing focus. While the whimsical storytelling keeps things engaging, the film’s leisurely pace may not appeal to every viewer.

For the film Amelie (2001) - break down the narrative structure of the film according to it's features in the three acts. Using the features discussed during class (and outlined in the PPT):

ACT I: Setup

The film introduces Amélie’s childhood, highlighting her loneliness and imaginative tendencies. Because of her isolated upbringing, she develops a habit of observing others from a distance rather than forming direct connections.

As an adult, she works as a waitress and stumbles upon a hidden childhood treasure box in her apartment. She makes it her mission to return it to its owner.

Seeing the emotional impact of this small gesture, Amélie becomes inspired to dedicate herself to secretly improving the lives of those around her.

Amélie actively commits to her acts of kindness, setting the stage for her larger journey.

ACT II: Confrontation

While Amélie successfully helps others, she struggles to address her own loneliness and desires.

She becomes fascinated by Nino, a man who collects discarded photo booth pictures, but instead of approaching him directly, she engages in a playful yet distant game of clues and riddles.

Despite carefully orchestrating encounters, Amélie continuously avoids actual connection, keeping Nino at arm’s length.

When Nino tries to meet her, Amélie panics and retreats, overwhelmed by her fear of vulnerability and rejection.

ACT III: Resolution

by her elderly neighbor, Amélie realizes she must take a risk and let herself be seen.

She finally invites Nino to her apartment, choosing to embrace love and human connection.

Amélie and Nino ride through the streets of Paris together, symbolizing her emotional transformation from an isolated observer to an active participant in her own happiness.

I expected a coming-of-age film, and it pleasantly delivered on that. However, I didn’t anticipate some of its sensual scenes or how Amélie’s romance would unfold.

For the most part, my expectations were fulfilled. The storytelling was enjoyable, and the production was visually stunning, using imaginative cinematography and whimsical elements to create a unique atmosphere. However, one aspect that caught me off guard was Amélie’s characterization. At times, she exhibited behaviors that seemed a bit manipulative or detached, almost sociopathic in the way she played with people’s lives from a distance. While this added to her complexity as a character, it wasn’t something I expected going in.

Many reviews overemphasize the film’s romantic aspect. While romance is present, Amélie is primarily about her personal growth—experiencing what she missed in childhood due to isolation and learning to connect with others. This misconception might lead new viewers to expect a typical love story rather than the introspective, whimsical journey the film actually presents.

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The Matrix (1999) by the Dir. Lana Wachowski & Dir. Lilly Wachowski

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The Matrix (1999) by the Dir. Lana Wachowski & Dir. Lilly Wachowski

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Protagonist <--> Antagonist

(Neo  <--> Agent Smith)

A protagonist is the central character of a story, typically the one who undergoes significant growth and drives the narrative forward. In The Matrix, Neo embodies this role. The story starts with him as an ordinary hacker and follows his journey of self-discovery as he learns about the true nature of reality. Through his trials, he evolves into "The One," a prophesied savior who can manipulate the Matrix and free humanity. His transformation allows him to break free from the system’s control and challenge the status quo.

An antagonist opposes the protagonist and creates obstacles to their goals. Agent Smith, a program designed to maintain order within the Matrix, serves as the primary antagonist. He represents oppression, control, and the relentless enforcement of a false reality. Unlike other agents, Smith harbors a deep resentment for humanity, seeing them as a disease that must be eradicated. His final battle with Neo in the subway and their later confrontations symbolize a larger ideological conflict: freedom vs. control, humanity vs. machinery.

Reason <--> Emotion

(Morpheus <--> Cypher)

Reason represents logic, belief in higher ideals, and a rational approach to problem-solving. Morpheus, as the leader of the resistance, embodies this archetype. He is unwavering in his belief that Neo is "The One" and dedicates himself to training and guiding him. His faith is based on prophecy and reasoning, making him a driving force behind Neo’s growth. Without Morpheus, Neo would not have embarked on his journey in the first place.

Emotion, on the other hand, is guided by personal feelings, desires, and impulses, often leading to irrational decisions. Cypher represents this perfectly. He is driven by nostalgia, longing for the comfort of the Matrix, despite knowing it’s an illusion. His emotions—disillusionment, resentment, and selfishness—lead him to betray his comrades in exchange for a fabricated life of bliss. His dinner scene with Agent Smith, where he expresses his willingness to forget the real world, and his cold monologue while cutting his team’s connection to the Matrix, highlight his emotionally driven decisions.

Sidekick <--> Skeptic

(Trinity <--> Cypher)

A sidekick is a loyal companion who supports the protagonist on their journey, offering guidance, encouragement, and assistance. Trinity fills this role as Neo’s closest ally and eventual love interest. She not only fights alongside him but also helps him accept his destiny. Her belief in him mirrors Morpheus’s, but her support is more personal and emotional. This is most evident in the climax, when her love and faith in Neo bring him back to life, defying the "rules" of the Matrix.

A skeptic questions the beliefs and ideals held by others, often doubting the protagonist’s mission. Cypher, once again, fits this archetype. Unlike Morpheus and Trinity, he does not believe in Neo’s supposed destiny, nor does he see the real world as worth fighting for. His skepticism leads him to betray the resistance, selling them out and murdering his own teammates. His lack of faith in the cause and his desire for personal gain define him as the doubter of the group.

Guardian <--> Contagonist

(Oracle <--> Agent Smith)

A guardian is a mentor or guide who helps the protagonist navigate their journey, offering wisdom and insight. The Oracle plays this role in The Matrix. She does not give direct answers but nudges Neo toward self-realization, particularly in the kitchen scene. She tells him "You’ve got the gift, but it looks like you’re waiting for something," subtly pushing him to take action. Her guidance ultimately helps Neo unlock his true potential.

A contagonist is a character who opposes or tempts the protagonist but is not the main villain. Agent Smith serves this function as well as being the antagonist. Unlike other agents, he develops a personal vendetta against Neo and the humans. His monologue about humanity being a "virus" showcases his contempt, making him more than just a program enforcing order—he is actively working against Neo in a way that even the other agents do not. His presence disrupts Neo’s path, challenging him in ways beyond simple combat.

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Three; Dumplings (2002) by Dir. Fruit Chan

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Three; Dumplings (2002) by Dir. Fruit Chan

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The film Dumplings, set in Hong Kong and directed by Fruit Chan, makes deliberate use of its color palette to reflect the unsettling themes of aging, desperation, and horror. Fruit Chan is known for his realistic portrayal of everyday people and often works with non-professional actors, aiming to depict harsh realities through striking visuals. In Dumplings, many scenes are set in cramped, low-income housing areas, which immediately communicate a sense of claustrophobia and social decay. The repeated use of muted greens and desaturated tones evokes rot, discomfort, and moral corrosion, which mirror the protagonist’s emotional and physical decline. These choices in color work in tandem with the disturbing subject matter to emphasize horror not just visually, but psychologically.

These stylistic choices intensify the film’s overall tone of dread and despair. The desaturated look strips the world of life, creating a bleak and unwelcoming atmosphere. By doing this, any emphasized color—like the stark red of blood or the grotesque green of the dumplings—becomes even more jarring and significant. This manipulation of color directs the audience's focus and deepens their emotional response, pushing us to confront the horror without distractions.

Absolutely. The choices were incredibly effective, and I genuinely felt physically uneasy while watching the film. The color palette heightened the visceral experience; the dull backgrounds made the disturbing elements more vivid and memorable. These visual decisions didn’t just complement the narrative—they elevated the discomfort and horror, making the film difficult to look away from, even when you wanted to.

The most striking costume and makeup choices were the differences between the two female leads—Aunt Mei and Mrs. Li. Aunt Mei, despite being much older, presents herself as youthful and composed, thanks to makeup and clothing that conceal her age and add an air of mystery. In contrast, Mrs. Li is portrayed as an aging actress desperately trying to regain her youth, and this is made more obvious through subtle aging makeup and her more conservative, structured wardrobe. Their appearances not only show the contrast in their personalities but also reveal how each character copes with the fear of aging and the desire to reclaim power through beauty

These choices help define the class differences and emotional states of the characters. Aunt Mei's youthful appearance speaks to her control over the situation and the horrifying source of her beauty. Meanwhile, Mrs. Li’s appearance reflects her struggle and growing desperation to maintain her status and allure, even as time works against her. The makeup and costume choices don't just build character—they serve as visual metaphors for deeper psychological and societal anxieties.

I definitely found the most appreciation for "Dumplings". Its story, though grotesque, felt grounded in very real human fears—aging, vanity, and the pressure to remain desirable. It reminded me of classic Filipino horror stories, which often intertwine the supernatural with social commentary. While it was disturbing, the film also made me reflect on how far people might go to preserve their youth and power, which made it both thought-provoking and effective.

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The Royal Tenenbaums (2001) by Dir. Wes Anderson

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The Royal Tenenbaums (2001) by Dir. Wes Anderson

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Wes Anderson's use of predominantly high-key lighting in The Royal Tenenbaums serves as a visual contradiction to the melancholic and emotionally stunted lives of the whole Tenenbaum family. The brightness and warmth of the even lighting helped amplify the irony and deadpan delivery of the film’s tragic, comedic narrative. While the surface is often whimsical and aesthetically executed, the emotional nuances such as loneliness, failure, alienation are intense. The high-key lighting underlines Anderson’s stylistic signature of blending stylized visuals with dark themes, thus supporting rather than hindering the Tenenbaum’s exploration of years of emotional repression and familial dysfunction.

Margo arriving on the Green Line bus

The scene where Margo steps off the Green Line bus is one of the most memorable moments in the film because of how it’s lit. The light is soft and spread out, giving the scene a warm, familiar, almost romantic feeling, which shows how important Margo is to Richie. The light mostly comes from the front and looks natural, probably sunlight, which makes her face and body glow evenly without strong shadows. It might be real sunlight, but they could have added some extra lighting to make it look just right. The colors in the scene are soft and earthy, with a bit of warmth, making it feel nostalgic. The way Margo is lit and framed makes her look like a memory; frozen in time and longing.

Royal's room at the Y

Royal’s room at the YMCA looks very different from the brighter and more playful places shown in the rest of the movie. The lighting in his room is dim, with lots of shadows, making the space feel gloomy and rough—just like his situation and personality. The light usually comes from above or the side, creating harsh shadows that make Royal look older and more worn out. Most of the light comes from everyday sources like lamps or windows, which makes the scene feel more real. The colors in the room are mostly cool shades like blue and gray, which make it feel cold and unwelcoming. This choice of lighting and color helps show how far Royal has fallen, how alone he is, and how disconnected he feels from his family. It takes away the charm he usually shows and lets us see how vulnerable he really is.

Richie's attempt in the bathroom

The bathroom scene where Richie tries to take his own life is one of the most emotional and shocking parts of the movie. The lighting here is harsh and dim, very different from the usual bright and warmlook of the film. The light seems to come from overhead fluorescent bulbs, giving the bathroom a cold and raw feel. This kind of lighting casts strong shadows on Richie’s face, showing just how broken and upset he is. The colors are mostly white and blue, and they look washed out, which adds to the feeling of sadness and distance. The cold, emotionless lighting makes the scene feel more real and painful, as if there’s nothing separating us, the viewers, from Richie. By stepping away from the film’s usual lighting style, this makes Richie’s emotional struggle hit even harder.

In the scene at the private investigator’s office with Raleigh and Richie, the lighting is used to show the difference between the two characters. Raleigh is in a brighter, more neutral area, while Richie is sitting in a darker part of the room. This use of light helps show how far apart they are emotionally and mentally. Raleigh is looking for answers and seems more open, which is why he’s in the light. Richie is more closed off and troubled, and the shadows around him show that he’s hiding something or struggling inside. The lighting acts like a visual wall between them, helping tell the story without needing them to say much. It shows their distance, isolation, and the quiet tension between them.

The lighting in The Royal Tenenbaums changes in small but meaningful ways as the story moves through its three acts. In the beginning, when we meet the Tenenbaum family and learn their history, the lighting is bright, soft, and pastel-colored. Everything looks neat and carefully arranged, showing how the family tries to appear special and perfect, as if they live in a dollhouse. In the middle of the film, as the characters face their problems and emotions, the lighting becomes a bit darker and more natural. We start to see more shadows and less “perfect” settings. Take for example, when Royal is kicked out or when Richie broke down, making the emotions feel more real. By the end of the movie, the lighting finds a middle ground. It’s no longer as bright as in the beginning, but it’s not as dark as in the middle either. It reflects how the characters are beginning to heal. Becoming more honest, calm, and hopeful. These changes in lighting help the audience feel the emotional ups and downs of the story and the characters’ slow steps toward reconnecting with each other.

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The Usual Suspects (1995) by Dir. Bryan Singer

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The Usual Suspects (1995) by Dir. Bryan Singer

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A ship explodes in San Pedro Bay, leaving 27 dead and two survivors: a burned Hungarian mobster and a crippled con artist named Verbal Kint. U.S. Customs Agent Dave Kujan interrogates Verbal, who recounts a complex story of how five criminals—including ex-cop Dean Keaton—were brought together for a job that led them into the hands of a shadowy crime lord named Keyser Söze. Through flashbacks, Verbal describes how the group pulled off a heist, only to be blackmailed by Söze's lawyer, Kobayashi, into attacking a ship carrying Söze’s rivals. The job ends in disaster—several of the group are killed, and there are no drugs on the ship. As the interrogation ends, Kujan believes Keaton was Söze. But after Verbal leaves, Kujan realizes Verbal made up the whole story using details from the office. A sketch of Söze—based on the Hungarian survivor's description—arrives and looks exactly like Verbal. Outside, Verbal loses his limp and drives away with Kobayashi, revealing the truth: Verbal Kint is Keyser Söze.

One standout scene is the opening sequence, where a wounded Dean Keaton is confronted and killed on a burning ship. The moment he recognizes his killer—presumably Keyser Söze—he has a look of defeated realization, like he’s thinking, “I should’ve known.” This reaction not only adds mystery early on but mirrors the audience’s own disbelief when the twist ending reveals Verbal as Söze. It’s a moment loaded with dramatic irony, especially upon a second viewing, when the truth recontextualizes Keaton’s death.

One of the most striking elements of the film is its non-linear storytelling and use of an unreliable narrator. The way Verbal manipulates the story, drawing inspiration from his surroundings, is only revealed in the final moments, which rewards close attention and encourages rewatching. This clever narrative structure elevates the film beyond a simple crime story and turns it into a puzzle for the viewer to solve. Another detail is how the lighting and color palette shift depending on the narrative tone that is more neutral and dim during the interrogation scenes, and more dramatic and stylized during flashbacks. This reflects the uncertain truth behind Verbal’s story and enhances the film’s overall sense of unease.

Yes, the film is technically and narratively well made, even if the twist didn’t surprise all viewers. The performances, cinematography, editing, and script all come together to create a film that holds up on repeat viewings. Though some viewers might catch on to Verbal’s deception early, the layers in his storytelling and the film’s subtle foreshadowing still make it engaging. The use of an unreliable narrator invites the audience to question what they’re seeing—an effective technique that adds depth and complexity. I'd say it's a film that would be a fun watch if you had to pick one when you're with dads or uncles.

1. Verbal Kint

Figure Expressions: Constantly fidgeting, avoiding eye contact, and maintaining a nervous, almost apologetic demeanor. His facial expressions help sell the idea that he is harmless and submissive.

Figure Movements: The limp and limited use of one hand are central to his character’s deception. His body language reinforces the illusion that he is physically and socially powerless.

Sound Elements: Verbal’s soft-spoken, stammering delivery adds to the sense of vulnerability. But his voice becomes firmer and more assured in subtle moments that, in retrospect, hint at his control.

2. Dean Keaton-

Figure Expressions: Stoic and controlled, often unreadable. His performance keeps the audience guessing whether he is truly reformed or still a criminal.

Figure Movements: Keaton carries himself like a leader—measured, commanding, and rarely frantic. His physicality underscores his dominant role in the group.

Sound Elements: Byrne delivers his lines with a quiet intensity. His voice is steady, and his calm demeanor contrasts with the increasing chaos around him.

3. Fred Fenster

Figure Expressions: Quirky and aloof, often raising eyebrows or making odd facial gestures. His expressions give him a distinct comedic rhythm.

Figure Movements: Slouched, casual posture, with unpredictable gestures that make him stand out in group scenes.

Sound Elements: Fenster’s heavily mumbled speech pattern makes him nearly unintelligible at times, which not only adds humor but makes him feel unpredictable and enigmatic.

1. The Police Lineup Scene

The iconic lineup scene is a brilliant use of blocking and ensemble performance. All five men are standing shoulder-to-shoulder, forced to repeat a line. Their different postures, expressions, and delivery styles give the audience a quick, efficient read on each character’s personality. Despite being confined to a small space, the blocking highlights group dynamics and sets the tone for the rest of the film.

2. Verbal’s Final Walk

In the final sequence, as Verbal leaves the police station and gradually sheds his limp, the blocking and framing shift subtly. He moves from a stumbling walk to a smooth, confident stride. The camera lingers just long enough to let the transformation sink in. This moment—silent and slow—says everything about his deception without needing any dialogue, making it one of the film’s most powerful visual payoffs.