Machiko (played by Machiko Ono) is a junior nurse working at a care home, but she herself is recovering from the death of her son and the burden of guilt her husband places on her, blaming her solely for their son's death. Under her care is Shigeki (played by débutante Shigeki Uda), an elderly man suffering from dementia and the death of his wife Mako some thirty years past. One day, while practising calligraphy, Shigeki notices that the characters of Machiko's name share characters with that of his dead wife's name and this sets him on a pilgrimage to her grave, unbeknown to Machiko, who is tricked into taking Shigeki on a drive for his birthday, where he escapes into the woods to find his wife's grave leaving Machiko to follow him.

'The Mourning Forest' is a somewhat perplexing film - it's often very subdued, sedentary and even jovial at the outset, but becomes thematically very heavy and much more melancholy as the film progresses, dealing with the grief both characters share and the redemption they seek. As they progress through the forest, their situations become reversed - Machiko, the care giver, has to rely on Shigeki, the cared for, and his insistence that he knows where he is going, but she becomes increasingly perturbed as the situation becomes more perilous and it falls to Shigeki to console her, offering cryptic advice that "running water will not return to it's source" which speaks not only of their immediate predicament, but of their individual personal losses.

I imagine some will have difficulty with this film. It doesn't offer much in way of explanation, many viewers even seem to miss the fact that Machiko is mourning a loss too, it requires a fair amount of patience for any sort of progression or pay-off and features a lot of symbolism and imagery that won't be apparent to non-Japanese viewers or those without an understanding of certain aspects of Japanese culture. For instance, the film's Japanese title translates to 'Mogari Forest', 'mogari' being a term to describe an ancient Japanese funerary ritual of temporary burial, while the number of years since Mako's death (thirty three) mark the time when Buddhists believe the soul of the departed travels to Buddha and the last chance for loved one's to say farewell.

Cinematically speaking, 'The Mourning Forest' features some wonderful cinematography and scenery, long, lingering shots of nature predominate much of the film when not directly following either character. However, when pointed at the characters the camera work often leaves something to be desired - shot in a shaky-cam documentary style, the camera moves far too much when centred on the characters and often switches between observing both characters, or presenting things from either of their perspectives. For a film that seems to seek to disengage itself from the need for exposition, this seems an unnecessary measure and the shaky-cam gives it an unwarranted amateur feel.

Overall I feel that 'The Mourning Forest' is at equal measures a beautiful and frustrating film. While I admire the director's decision to break from the need to explain every detail, this works both against and in the film's favour as at times it helps create a feel of intrigue and tension (especially towards the films latter stages) but it also makes the film somewhat impenetrable. However, for patient viewers who are happy to sit back and revel in the beautiful scenery and sedentary tone until the film gets around to explaining itself, 'The Mourning Forest' is quite a touching and sincere film with good performances from the lead actors and some arresting visuals.

The Killing Fields tells the real-life story of American journalist Sydney Schanberg (played by Sam Waterson) and his experiences as the last American journalist in the Cambodian capital of Phnom Penh as American forces flee in the face of Pol Pot's brutal Khmer Rouge regime seizing power. The first half of the film is an unhinged jumble of events as we follow Schanberg and his Cambodian assistant Dith Pran (played by Haing S. Ngor) in their attempts to report on the chaos that unfurls in Phnom Penh and show the outside world the real, unsanitised face of the war in Cambodia. However, as the Khmer Rouge party prepares to march on the capital American forces and civilians flee, but Schanberg is determined to stay despite the danger and convinces Pran to stay with him. As the situation further escalates Schanberg, Pran and the other journalists still in Phnom Penh find themselves isolated in the capital and at the mercy of the brutal Khmer Rouge. They hold up in the French embassy and although arrangements are made to evacuate the foreign journalists, the Khmer Rouge demand that all Cambodian citizens be handed over to them. Schanberg and his fellow journalists attempt to doctor a fake American passport to get Pran out of the country, but it's to no avail and Sydney is forced to abandon Pran to the hands of the brutal regime.

After the dizzying pace of the films first third, which is accompanied by a syth soundtrack that keeps the tension at a fever pitch at the best of times and veers too closely to awful-80's-syth territory at the worst of times, the second half of the film is a much more sombre affair as both men struggle to deal with their situations. Sydney, now back in the US, is convinced Pran is alive and sends letter after letter hoping to find some information as to his whereabouts, but is also struggling with the guilt he feels over abandoning Pran to his fate, while Pran himself is languishing under the savage rule of the Khmer Rouge. It's through his eyes and narration that we see the brutal crimes committed by Pol Pot's regime, as all traces of culture, learning and foreign influence are suppressed and eradicated, and it's through Pran's eyes which we see the titular Killing Fields that so shocked the world and where hundreds of thousands of innocent Cambodians met their deaths.

Despite the manner in which director Roland Joffé quite clearly often attempts to manipulate the viewer, tug at the heart strings, rationalise the Khmer Rouge's insanity and condemn American foreign policy in one fell swoop, the film never really feels too preachy or schmaltzy (except for the musical choice for the ending - Lennon's 'Imagine', really? Ugh) and that's largely thanks to wonderful performances from the lead actors. Waterson is brimming with indignant, righteous anger as the American journalist on a mission at the films outset, but paints a picture of a diminished, pained and guilt-ridden man by the second act. Haing S. Ngor on the other-hand provides a startling and powerful performance as Dith Pran that surely was accentuated by his own experiences in the Cambodian war where he lost his wife and child. Ngor won Best Supporting Actor for his role, and remains the only Asian man to have won the award to date. It was certainly well deserved as without Ngor's touching and emotive performance I seriously doubt that this film dealing ostensibly with the atrocities of the Cambodian war, but ultimately with themes of friendship and guilt would stand up to the test of time half as well.

Marco Bellocchio's 'Vincere' is a dark and powerful film that follows Benito Mussolini's rise to power through the eyes of his first wife, Ida Dalser, who was seduced and then betrayed by Mussolini as he abandoned her and their son on his way to becoming Italy's dictator, ultimately disavowing any knowledge of their existence. The film starts with a stylish and operatic punch as a young Mussolini (played by Filippo Timi) veers away from socialism to form the National Fascist Party, the narrative speeding through historical events at a steady pace for the first half hour, interposed with newsreel headlines and archive footage projected on screen in a manner reminiscent of Lars Von Trier's 'Europa'.

Abruptly the film shifts focus to Ida Dalser (Giovanna Mezzogiorno) as she is forcibly separated first from Mussolini, then from her own son and finally from the outside world as Mussolini attempts to cover up any trace of their marriage and has Dalser committed to an insane asylum. Not only does this present a shift of perspective, but it's a stark shift in the film's tone too. Gone are the stylish and grandiose themes of revolution, seduction and upheaval, replaced by a tragic and startling performance from Mezzogiorno as her character descends further into mental illness.

Filippo Timi provides a frenzied and forceful portrayal of both 'Il Duce' and the adult version of the dictator's unrequited son, but it's Giovanna Mezzogiorno's career defining performance that steals the show, showing Dalser as strong, resilient and somewhat naive in outset, harrowed, resigned and on the very brink by the film's close. Mezzogiorno's role is somewhat allegorical of the film as a whole, as like Italian society Dalser too was seduced and subsequently betrayed by the charm of the fierce and intelligent Mussolini. Ultimately with 'Vincere' Bellocchio and his lead actors present a mature and thought provoking look at one of the most clouded stories of Fascist Italy's past with an uncanny sense of style and dramatic flair and punctuated by the film's wonderful classical score. Remarkable.

Red Desert (1964) by Michelangelo Antonioni

Italian director Michelangelo Antonioni's 1964 piece 'Red Desert' is, on the surface, a film that deals with the changing face of the world under rampant industrialisation, but far more than that it's a comment on alienation and human adaptability in such a society. Guiliana (played by Monica Vitti) is the wife of petroleum plant manager Ugo. She lives in a spacious, modern apartment with Ugo and their small son, but there's an undercurrent of instability in Guiliana's persona, a feeling of unease and angst that Monica Vitti exhibits in Guiliana's every action. Vitti's portrayl of Guiliana is one of a woman on the point of a nervous breakdown, always fidgiting, wringing her hands, looking at unease and full of angst and continually walking away from conversations, forcing others to follow her. The way her character hugs close to walls at every opportunity is allegorical of her need to be surrounded by friends, family and loved ones, claiming that she "is only ill when I'm alone". We find out that Guiliana had recently been in a car accident and had spent a month in hospital being treating for shock, but unbeknownst to Ugo, Guiliana isn't adjusting well after her accident, while her husband remains entirely oblivious. Into the frame comes Corrado Zeller (Richard Harris), an engineer friend of Ugo on his way to set up a new petrolium plant in Patagonia. Zeller is a quiet, reserved man who, like Guiliana, is visibly at unease with his surroundings, however his life and work afford him the luxury of moving from place to place, while Guiliana feels increasingly trapped in her existence. Inexorably, Zeller and Guiliana are drawn to each other, Zeller recognising a kindred spirit of sorts and Guiliana casting out a cry for help that only Zeller is capable of recognising. The fact that Zeller picks up on this and is continually drawn to Guiliana, despite her unstable, demanding behaviour, immediately points to his attraction to her, but it's only after acting on his attraction that Guiliana comes to accept her station and encounters her defining realisation; people aren't cured, they adapt.

But it's not just Guiliana's life she has to adapt to, it's her surroundings, beautifully brought to screen in what was, quite surprisingly, Antonioni's first foray into colour. With a telephoto lens to flatten the perspective, framing scenes purposefully out of focus and the use of disarming long-cut shots, Antonioni paints a bleached and chemical picture of post-war Italy, an Italy that expanded into an industrial super-power at an alarming rate. Antonioni was so adamant about how this world should be presented that he insisted on painting trees, barrels, walls and even whole fields to ensure the results he envisioned. An extreme measure, certainly, but a welcome one as the stark, sterile greys of this industrial Italy, juxtaposed here and there with flourishes of artificial, man-made colour, are often brought to the forefront of the viewer's mind when at times the pacing and ambiguity of the narrative create a lull in interest. Those man-made colours provide another allegorical point, alluding to how the society of this industrial community has adapted to the bleak repetitiveness of the environment by injecting splashes of primary colour into their surroundings. One criticism that's easy to level at 'Red Desert' is that it's an entirely singular film - Guiliana is undoubtedly the protagonist of this piece, but everyone else, even the ambiguous love interest Zeller, appears on screen barely defined. This might be a problem for anyone expecting a traditional narrative, but that's not what 'Red Desert' is about. There's no real progression of story here, only the progression of Guiliana's mental state, everything else is quite incidental and as such, is not admitted entry into Antonioni's vision. It's this bold vision that provides the films defining hallmarks; the remarkable cinematography that surrounds Monica Vitti's accomplished, if somewhat overwrought, performance.

Profound Desires of the Gods (1968) by Shôhei Imamura

Shôhei Imamura was already a well known name in Japanese cinema by 1968, having worked as an assistant to legendary film-maker Yasujirō Ozu and with a string of light-comedy, drama and documentary successes under his belt. 1968's Profound Desires of the Gods was to be his biggest undertaking yet, however the film's production was fraught with problems, running wildly over-budget and with the original shooting schedule of 6 months spiralling to 18 months by the films completion, a lot was riding on the success of the film, for both Imamura and production company Nikkatsu - unfortunately for both, the film was a huge failure at the box-office, too obscure and unconventional to gain the mainstream success it's production costs demanded. After it's failure Imamura retreated to documentary work for more than a decade, while Nikkatsu would not make such a lavish, high budget production again for many years. This huge failure probably goes some way to explain the film's lack of recognition on the international stage. For many years it was entirely unavailable to English speaking audiences, but thankfully that all changed last year with Eureka! entertainment's deluxe blu-ray release finally opening up Imamura's lost and misunderstood masterpiece to an international audience.

Profound Desires of the Gods is an engaging, provocative and bizarre piece that ostensibly explores on a number of different levels the duality of Japan's relationship with it's own culture and tradition versus the tide of modernisation and influence from the outside world. The story takes place on the fictional, but obviously Okinawa-inspired, southern Japanese island of Kurage and centres on the lives of the Futori family, who hold the claim to the oldest blood-line on the island. It is quickly made apparent that the Futori's are heavily inter-bred and are shunned and ostracised by the island's community, who refer to them as 'beastly' and believe that their incest is responsible for the islands misfortune. The family's patriarch, old and possibly-senile Yamamori, is both Father and Grandfather to Toriko, a dumb-witted girl whose childlike manner belies her almost feral desire for sex, while Toriko's Mother and Yamamori's Granddaughter Uma is a noroor seer, who lives away from the family at the local shrine (the last remaining fresh water source on the island). Meanwhile, Uma's Son Kametaro is the most normal of the group and struggles to come to terms with his incestuous feelings for his sister Toriko and the islanders distaste for his family, while his Father and Yamamori's son Nekichi is imprisoned by his Father at the bottom of a flooded pit for his crimes against the community (dynamite fishing, and attempting an illicit incestuous relationship with their seer, his sister Uma) and given the near-impossible task of dislodging a huge boulder that has blocked the flow of water to the island's rice fields.

The rice fields point to a recurring parallel in the film, representing Japan's traditional agricultural past versus the modern uptake of sugar farming that the islanders turn to after the rice fields become untenable. Yamamori's desire to see the rice fields restored represents his families struggle to retain their ways in the face of the islanders scorn, while the incestuous relationship his family is born from and the parallel it poses to the islands' creation myth (where two sibling deities are married) represents the uneasy relationship some have with their superstitious past and their desire to see it forgotten from the islands culture. This is the central theme of the film, which in itself is a product of the mindset of Japan as a whole at the time the film was made, a Japan almost embarrassed by it's past and wanting to be perceived as modern thinking on the world stage. Although the Futori's incest marks them as outcasts and the negative results of such relationships are on display for all to see, Imamura effectively paints the family as sympathetic characters, symbolising traditions and religious and superstitious beliefs that fall in the face of modernisation, while casting a disapproving eye on the effects Western influence ultimately has on the island.

Profound Desires of the Gods is a complex and often bewildering film that moves at a disjointed, almost leisurely pace. Imamura has us firmly positioned entirely as voyeurs for much of the film, always watching events unfold at a distance, his characters enveloped by wide-angle shots of the beautiful Okinawan scenery that provides us with a cinematic feast for the eyes. His themes of east versus west and tradition versus progress are always present, yet never hammered home until the films climax, leaving the viewer to piece together the entangled web of the Futori's relationships and admire the films cinematography and the natural beauty of Okinawa. And in that regard, the film is a huge success, making up for what it lacks in pacing and narrative with sheer visual beauty and a deeper subtext that ultimately paints Kurage island and it's inhabitants as an allegory for what Imamura perceived as an increasing abandonment of Japanese culture and tradition to serve modern and Western needs. Surreal and thoughtful throughout, accompanied by beautiful and expertly shot visuals and with a message that's as pertinent today as it was then, Profound Desires of the Gods most certainly isn't a film for everyone, but it is in equal turns an epic and singular piece that surely must rank among Imamura's best.

The Last Battle aka Le Dernier Combat (1983) by Luc Besson

Shot entirely in black and white and set in a barely inhabited post-apocalyptic world where the atmosphere has rendered humanity mute, Luc Besson's feature length début was nothing short of ambitious. The plot ostensibly follows The Man as he scavenges for parts to keep his light aircraft in repair - venturing out into the wasteland he stumbles across a hospital where he meets The Doctor, a man living in fear of The Brute (played by Jean Reno) who is attempting to gain entry to the hospital and kill the Doctor. Through non-verbal communication, The Man and The Doctor come to help each other in an attempt to survive and keep The Brute at bay. Despite the innovative premise and stark, stylish beauty of Besson's direction, the film moves at an odd pace whereby it's more confusion and intrigue that keeps the viewer watching, rather than for any substance of character or story. The daring decision to have next to no intelligible dialogue throughout doesn't help matters, as the viewer is left to piece together the characters motives without explanation, but it's the score (the epitome of awful 80's synth soundtracks) more than anything else that dates the film and hindered this viewers enjoyment. While still worth checking out for any fans of Besson, the post-apocalyptic genre and cinema in general, it's not the easiest of films to watch, but one that rewards the viewer in spades through Besson's fantastic direction.