cinema and media studies

on ‘The Big Short’ 

I remember what 2007-2009 looked and felt like for me. I had just transferred from a public university to a private one in 2006 for a better education, and by 2007, my parents’ business was heavily on the decline. By 2008, they were facing bankruptcy and by 2009, the house they bought in October 1999 was under foreclosure. 

When the financial crisis actually hit, I was a junior in college facing an economy that offered no prospects for me. Bush was still President but Obama was campaigning and eventually won. 

When I saw the trailer for THE BIG SHORT, I was most intrigued by the fact that a comedic director (Adam McCay) was making a film about finance. I was also drawn by the interesting medley of actors: Christian Bale, Steve Carell, Ryan Gosling, and pleasant surprise actress appearances by Melissa Leo and Marisa Tomei. Leo and Tomei’s screen times were very little compared to the rest of the male casts’ in this sausage fest film. Furthermore, I found it really strange that the movie’s protagonists were also part of the giant problem. Rather than being whistleblowers, they benefited off of the detriment of the crisis which hurt families of lower income the most. 

There were maybe three distinct moments where actors show a sense of conflicting morale but just because they appear to struggle with their morals onscreen, does that image overpower the fact that they’ve profited a huge sum from the crisis?

The film has at least two allusions to Scorsese’s THE WOLF OF WALL STREET: 1) Gosling’s narration breaking the fourth wall 2) Margot Robbie’s cameo (she’s sitting naked in a tub drinking champagne, btw… just another dimensionless actress whose function is to literally appeal to the male gaze, as though this film is solely for the male audience…)

What worked in WOLF… is that the protagonist simply has no moral crisis or dilemma when it comes to the money game. He doesn’t care at all that he’s exploiting the working class and he doesn’t change at the end of the movie, either. 

What THE BIG SHORT does, however, is to attempt humanization where no humanity can be taken from. The men who were part of this real estate bubble–the ones who contributed to it then took from the blood bath after it burst–are still bastards no matter how much the film tried to appeal to me as a human film. 

Just because Gosling’s character admits onscreen that he never claimed to have been the good guy doesn’t make these characters any less villainous in my viewing. In fact it pisses me off even more that a movie with a $28 million budget was dedicated to humanizing thieves and trying to convince the ticket buying public that these guys are on our side.

The film does attempt to demystify financial talk for the viewers. Does it do it successfully? For the most part, no. But it seems to applaud itself for doing such a great job. It’s almost patronizing in this way. It’s filled with pop icons to dumb down the educational experience for the sheep colony audience. 

With that said, what was most remarkable about this movie was the editing. It keeps the viewer engaged and does bring insight into the lives of working, bill paying people who were affected by the crisis. On that same note, it tries very hard to distinguish the bad finance guys from the good finance guys. This is a directing problem and in that regard, I view the movie as hypocritical on its foundation. 

I’m not interested in hearing about who saw what coming and made what. Did they fight for the working people’s cause? Nope. 

That’s the point of the movie. The fact that the film masquerades as a morally just story that is a voice of the people is appalling to me. 

At the very least, the film does alert the viewer and say that the problem has returned and puts the onus on the audience to seek out change. Again, I take this push for moral values with a grain of salt. How can working, bill-paying, ticket buying viewers impact the financial system? It’s too tremendous of a question. 

Had this excellent cast and budget been put into the story of those who did pioneer a strategy that has shown success in affecting the financial system then the audience would have tools to begin something at the very least. But what this film seems to do is simply say, this happened and this will continue to happen. It doesn’t offer any real solution. Instead it makes us laugh it off. Because it’s a comedy, right? 

Art, cinema and media studies, Film, ideology, philosophy

feminist reading of Bong Joon-ho’s ‘Memories of Murder’

“Woman, in this sexual imaginary, is only a more or less obliging prop for the enactment of man’s fantasies.” –Luce Irigaray, This Sex Which Is Not One, 1977.

Upon rewatching Memories of Murder (2005) by Bong Joon-ho, I had the opportunity to reconsider the film entirely from a gender studies perspective.

The film opens on a bright yellow rice field where the grain dangles, ripe for harvest. (What is more fruitful to us humans than a woman’s womb?) On the day of the first murder case, October 23, 1986, Detective Park Doo-man goes to ditch and stares into the dark and narrow tunnel. Shoved deep inside, he finds the corpse of a dead woman whose arms and legs are expertly tied back.

The dark black tunnel that these male detectives stare into and continue to scrutinize for signs and answers is significant of male misconception, misrecognition, and lack of understanding of the female body.

As the deaths pile up, it becomes evident that the bodies are always found in a setting that likens a woman’s body. The trench tunnel is one, which obviously indicates a woman’s vaginal canal. Another is found among large stacks of hay that look like breasts. The field is a rice field—again, a fruitful place much like a woman’s sex organs. Two other bodies are found deep inside a forest thick with trees like a woman’s pubic hair.

As the search for the serial killer sharpens towards the midpoint of the film, the forensic team finds that the murderer has inserted foreign objects into the victim’s vagina. Inside one corpse, the forensics team finds pieces of a peach. Inside another corpse—a teenage girl’s—the team finds the items that were found inside the girl’s backpack such as a pen, razor and spork. The forensics team can’t find any semen inside the victims’ bodies but they do find items that were found on the woman shortly before she was killed.

At the very least, Bong has an awareness of Freudian concepts, and an interest in sexuality and psychoanalysis. I recall this from a Q&A he gave after a screening of Mother (2009) at the 12th International Women’s Film Festival in Seoul back in April 2010. Bong was the only male filmmaker whose film was shown at the festival solely because of the subject of his film—a mother.

When an audience member asked about the Oedipal tension between the widow (Kim Hye-ja) and her son Do-joon (Won Bin), Bong denied any actual physical sex between the parent and child, but did acknowledge that Western notions that linked female hysteria her deprivation of sex was in part an inspiration to his film. The film treats phallic symbols interestingly throughout. Do-joon–the son–is the prime phallic presence at home where he and his mother live together. Later, the mother takes on a kind of peeping-Tom position—a male position thereby becoming herself phallic–when she spies on Jin-tae (Jin Goo) having sex with his girlfriend. During the Q&A, Bong also recalled a story he’d read in the news regarding a case where a man who lived in a single room home with his mother was suspected of raping young girls he would adopt then send back to foster care, one by one. Aside from the monstrous actions of the man, Bong said he was more concerned with the mother who did not blow the whistle on her son’s molestations, which she could not have missed considering the size of their home being just a single room.

Bong claimed that his intent with the film was to challenge the audience with a question on how far a mother’s love for her child can reach, and if it goes beyond society’s moral bounds. A woman’s intense connection to her son coupled with a sex-deprived hysteria is a disastrous combination to Bong.

In Memories of Murder, Bong’s desire to understand the female body and its mysteriousness is ever present, and he utilizes various male figures to do the scrutinizing. In this sense, the film is very phallocentric. The male detectives who find and examine the bodies have a legitimized phallic presence in the film. They allow the viewer to access the female body with an OK’d sense of authority thus negating any possibilities of scopophilia; given their badged status, they are allowed to look into the woman’s vagina, and we as onlookers, are also cleared. Through these badged phallices, the audience traverses a number of deep, dark tunnels. We’ve already covered the tunnel inside the ditch. Then there’s the train tunnel—again a deep, dark presence in the film. Another dark hole is found in the film’s series of references to the toilet or outhouse.

The tunnel is a place where found objects always lead to a destruction of the person’s body and/or consciousness. In the case with the women’s bodies, there’s the obvious hint: death. With the detectives, there’s always fist-fighting that erupts near the train tunnel, typically over his male ego. As Irigaray puts it, the penis is only good for its “rivalry” capabilities: “…’strongest’ being the one who has the best ‘hard-on,’ the longest, the biggest, the stiffest penis, or even the one who ‘pees the farthest’…” These persistent male distractions keep the detectives from finding any answers to the town’s serial killings of women.

At the train tracks and tunnel, there’s always death and violence: on one occasion, a mentally disabled boy named Kwang-ho (Park No-sik) gets killed at the tracks after the police lose their patience with him and start to beat him for answers; on another occasion, the detectives beat up Hyeon-gyu (Park Hae-il), their prime suspect, without any amounting evidence to confirm whether or not he is in fact the murderer. The significance of these kinds of male-ego cockfights that occur near the dark black tunnel is, again, Bong’s illustration of man’s inability to make sense of a woman’s body.

The fact that the murderer puts foreign objects into the woman’s vagina is further indication of male ignorance with regards to the female body. Rather than placing his penis into it, he puts in objects. This, at the very least, indicates the murderer’s impotence, and impotence—interchangeably viewed as incompetence—is another major theme in the film. The police demonstrate their incompetence as effective case solvers, the government demonstrates its incompetence to its society by using up military resources to squash the people’s political demonstrations rather then sending help to the town which is in a state of emergency due to the serial killings. The town demonstrates its incompetence by spreading gossip around the murders which further muddles the investigation. The town’s journalists spread news of incompetence of the town’s police force and their government thus hurting overall morale. The nation displays its incompetence by not having the right technology and resources to get a proper DNA testing performed.

The film’s final shot when Doo-man breaks the fourth wall and stares straight into the deep, dark tunnel of the camera lens, the deep dark room of the theater, into the deep, dark eyes of the viewers, what is he seeing?

He sees the inexplicable, and Doo-man’s expression filled with fear, emotion and urgency is the filmmaker alerting us—the audience—to take on that responsibility. It is up to us to find the murderer by first coming to terms with the unknowable. This is a push for gender equality. By persistently mystifying the woman’s body, we’ve failed to protect it, and we’ve allowed it to go harmed. When we stare into the black screen awaiting answers, what are we seeing? What are we registering? These inexplicable images are what we need to intelligize. The onus is partially on us as viewers. Our language and discourse have a role in making gender equality a reality.



Art, cinema and media studies, Essay, Film, ideology, philosophy

Ideology, FGM and Sembene’s MOOLAADE (2004)

I read about female genital mutilation (FGM) in an anthropology class as a freshman in college, and what I recollect the most is that one of the main purposes of FGM is to make sex unpleasant for girls in order to prevent infidelity—essentially, perform a painful circumcision on women for an ideology that suits the dominant group—the patriarch. But notice how in Ousmane Sembene’s Moolaade (2004), polygamy for men is the norm at the village in Burkina Faso; women must remain faithful to one man and not enjoy sex, but men can have more than one wife and enjoy sex.


While reading Althusser’s “Ideology and Ideological State Apparatus,” I thought a lot about what causes harmful/oppressive traditions and practices to continue in spite of being inhumane. Althusser notes ideology’s “reproduction of production” and the agencies that allow this production to perpetuate. While watching Moolaade, I kept wondering why the male elders in the film persistently remained ignorant to the problems that were arising from the practice of FGM as a ritual for young girls in the village. As Althusser might put it, the male elders’ ideology does not “correspond with reality,” and as agents of reproducing the product of their ideology, they must uphold tradition (protect their ideology) and all of its rituals including FGM. For instance, when news spreads that the girls have run away from the “purification” ceremony, the men simply say that the girls must return to the ritual and have the performance done. When news spreads that two of the girls committed suicide at the well to avoid the circumcision, the men simply move on from the topic and avoid discussing it (meanwhile, the women of the village all gather in the night by the well to stand vigil). When Binetou dies from the performance, the men remain firm in their stance and express no remorse for the death of yet another young girl. While doing so, they cite Allah, and say that a man’s word trumps that of a woman’s, and so Colle must undo the Moolaade. Althusser’s diagnosis of a hurtful practice continuing in spite of its harms would simply be that this village is performing what any other Ideological State Apparatus (ISA) would perform, and that is protecting the actions and agents that produce the State’s ideology by putting it to practice, thus allowing this ideology to regenerate, perpetuate and reproduce.

Jacqueline Bobo writes in “The Color Purple: Black Women as Cultural Readers” that “traditions are made, not born.” Similarly, Althusser argues that ideology is a concept that is universally present in the minds of individuals and as a collective: “Ideology has no history.” If this is true, then it introduces the possibility that a new idea that gets upheld as an ideology can also permeate through groups and enter the collective consciousness to become the new ideology; as Bobo puts it, “When an articulation arises, old ideologies are disrupted and a cultural transformation is accomplished.” In Moolaade, this articulation begins with Colle first claiming a Moolaade for the girls who ran away, and protecting them. Then Colle is beaten in public before everyone in the village including the male elders. The transformation happens in the form of encouragement from the women standing by for Colle, telling her not to give up or fall down; this begins to materialize a new ideology by disrupting the old ideology; the tears shed by Amasatou while watching her mother get beaten is another disruption of the old ideology, where she would have done anything (buy new clothes, get her genitals cut) so that she could marry Ibrahima—a wealthy man of a respected family. This breakdown of the old spirit leading to an awakening for all of the village women is finalized in the film through the death of Binetou, one of the youngest of the group of girls who fled the ceremony.

When the women arrive at the center of the village—at the site of the phallic-looking mosque—where the women’s confiscated radios burn, the women confiscate the Exciseuses’ knives and throw them into the same fire; the women no longer need the radio to inform them of what is right and wrong; they hold that information internally, they have a voice to express what they believe in, and the willingness to put those beliefs into action. Furthermore, when the Exciseuses give up the knives, they become allies with the mothers—even for a moment; the mothers who suffered pain and loss stand together with the women who performed FGM and killed their daughters while upholding an old ideology: “An articulation results from a coming together of separate discourses under certain specific conditions and at specific times” (Bobo, 105).

Althusser says that an ideology “recruits.” Ideology functions through “interpellation” or “hailing.” It catches the attention of the subject through a Subject (mirror effect). In Moolaade, the Exciseuses finally recognize themselves in the mothers who suffered child loss and pain, and most especially in Colle—a martyr figure (like Christ, as Althusser might put it). The women in the village who previously stood with the Exciseuses later come to tell Colle that they “felt the blows” when Colle was being beaten before them, thus hailing them towards a new ideology. This cross recognition leads to what Bobo calls a “cultural transformation.” Bobo is not naïve, though. She says, “[Cultural transformation] is always in the process of becoming.” Ideology—new or old—can only exist when there are agents who keep it in function, and allow it to materialize.

In the second to last scene, when Amasatou tells Ibrahima that she is and always will remain a “Bilakoro,” her stance is as important as Ibrahima’s decision to accept her for what she is without trying to fit her into the outdated ideology—one that silenced and ignored the women’s cries against FGM; the union of these two will put the new ideology into motion through practice. Sembene’s maleness as a filmmaker is important for this film. The two men who express their support of the women’s ideology—Ibrahim and Colle’s husband—do so by physically walking away from the shade where the male elders sit; they each come to terms with leaving behind what ideologically defined their masculinity in order to find union and happiness with the women in their new ideology. This recognition from agents of the patriarch is also noteworthy. This alliance is also part of the articulation that Bobo describes, and part of the unity that must be “strengthened.”

(Originally published on UCLA’s FTVDM Bulletin.)

*There is a new film out entitled Sembene! (2015) which recently played at the AFI Film Festival. Check your local theaters to find play dates.



A Need for the Imagined & Legitimized Spectatorship in ALI: FEAR EATS THE SOUL

According to Christian Metz, the cinematic apparatus is a false—or imagined—existence that causes perception and is itself a perception, but ultimately an illusion. Because of this, Metz often compares cinema to the mirror, which functions essentially as a reflector or an identifier, hence Metz’ title of this essay: “The Imaginary Signifier.”

To Metz, cinema is a type of identifier for the spectator, which in turn develops the viewer’s ego; since the viewer can identify a person in the film, although the viewer him/herself is not necessarily in the film, the basic fact that the viewer and character (and actor) are both persons allows the cinematic apparatus to work in developing a viewer’s ego. Metz makes a point that the viewer can identify with both the character in the film and with the actor of the film without necessarily seeing the actual reflection of the viewer’s own body in the film: “The spectator is absent from the screen: contrary to the child in the mirror, he cannot identify with himself as an object, but only with objects which are there without him” (48).

Metz also refers to the camera and projector as literal/physical forms of the cinematic apparatus, but in all of his comparisons, there is a consistent duality at play: Metz discusses cinema’s effect of being both “projective” and “introjective,” and it being like a “phantom” or fictional tale yet with enough verisimilitude so that the viewer can gauge a sense of identity while viewing it (49-51). Ultimately, however, Metz doesn’t view the cinematic apparatus as any one thing with a single function; according to Metz, the cinematic apparatus is like an organic, living system or machine that has many parts and functions that work in numerous ways: “Chain of many mirrors, the cinema is at once a weak and a robust mechanism: like the human body, like a precision tool, like a social institution. And the fact is that it is really all of these at the same time” (51).  So the cinematic apparatus, according to Metz, is not restricted to just the subject (viewer) and object (reflection), but rather it becomes a spectrum of perceptions through which the viewer can find numerous identifications through it, and this spectrum is in constant flux, but ultimately, a type of mirror, and therefore defined as kind of living illusion for the viewer.

In “From the Kaleidoscope to the X-Ray: Urban Spectatorship, Poe, Benjamin and Traffic in Souls (1913),” Tom Gunning modifies the notion of the apparatus by emphasizing this very point that Metz makes, and he compares the cinematic apparatus to the kaleidoscope—a tool that moves patterns and colors for the viewer, thus shifting and changing the perspective with every movement through every moment. Gunning whittles down cinema to the world of the spectator, comparing it to something lavish, colorful, patterned and alive; aside from the kaleidoscope, he also compares it to a glitzy shopping mall, or a glittering city street; he repeatedly uses the phrase “visual delight” throughout his descriptions of cinema and what it is for the spectator (4-5). According to Gunning, because cinema never fails to be “moving,”  “shifting,” “transforming” or “bustling,” it is a constant “visual delight” to the spectator (7). To Gunning, cinema is like moving particles in high heat in a dense space much like a city, and one that contains endless “fascination” through its movement for the viewer who is pleased by the sight. Like it is for Metz, to Gunning, the cinematic apparatus is like a living form, and one that engages the viewer.

Thomas Elsassaer also brings up the notion of pleasure within the cinematic apparatus but from the perspective of the film’s characters, in particular the ones found in New German Cinema and most especially in Rainer Werner Fassbinder’s films. Elsassaer is more interested in the motives of the characters within Fassbinder’s films, and that is ultimately the pleasure of being seen. For instance, in gangster films such as Gods of the Plague and American Soldier, the characters are driven primarily by their wish to “play their roles ‘correctly’” (47). According to Elsaesser, the character’s role becomes an identity, and both the role and cinema create spectators; having spectators is the character’s ultimate wish: “…to be, in Fassbinder, is to be perceived…” (47). Having a spectator means that there is an audience, and characters take comfort in that because it confirms their existence. But the spectator must also be motivated to focus its viewership on the spectacle; and so, “…Fassbinder answers by showing the imaginary always constructing itself anew” (47). Much like Metz’ and Gunning’s comparisons, the cinematic apparatus is also alive for Elsassaer.

Elsassaer examines the German psyche behind this type of exhibitionist motive, comparing Fassbinders’ characters to the mental state of working-class members who supported Hitler during his reign; whereas the bourgeois had a direct and visible connection to Hitler’s regime, the working-class’ support was not as visible; therefore, the working-class made conscious efforts to exhibit their support openly and in an obvious manner; being seen was a way of survival: “Fascism in its Imaginary encouraged a moral exhibitionism, as it encouraged denunciation and mutual surveillance” (49). If their support was not visible to the state, they might be misconstrued as being insubordinate or against the regime, which had dire consequences during Hitler’s reign. This feeling of a limited gaze not being enough to confirm a real existence is found in Fassbinder’s Ali: Fear Eats the Soul, where the two main characters—Emmi and Ali—are all both participants and themselves the objects of the gaze, and typically one of disapproval, e.g. when Emmi first enters the bar, she stares at the prostitutes and the foreign workers, who in turn stare back at her with curiosity and mild scorn for her age; once Emmi and Ali get together, the entire community containing Emmi’s coworkers, family, shopkeeper, and some members of Ali’s community—the prostitute/bartender and his coworkers—pass judgment on the union, calling it “unnatural” or doubting that it would last at all; when Ali and Emmi go to a public space such as a café or restaurant, the staff stare at them wordlessly and disdainfully.

At the start of Emmi and Ali’s relationship—which blossoms before the gaze of many witnesses at a bar that Emmi wanders into out of curiosity and in order to get out of the rain—Emmi and Ali find that having only each other is enough; when Emmi goes to work and tells her coworkers a white lie that a foreign man offered to buy her coffee, her coworkers pass judgment on a fellow elderly woman who began seeing a Turkish man and became a town pariah for it; to this, Emmi responds that perhaps that woman doesn’t need anyone but her man. Eventually, though, both Emmi and Ali grow tired of each other’s limitations, and at some point, they even stop speaking to each other, but only gaze at each other; this does not lead to any resolutions in the strain in their relationship, but only drives them further apart. The only way that the couple is finally able to find reconciliation is later at the bar again, where Ali asks Emmi to dance with him as he’d done when they first met, he does so in the presence of many viewers. Having this community gaze is what gives Emmi and Ali pleasure in their relationship again, as it reaffirms that their relationship is in fact real.


Whether the gaze from their community is one of disapproval or not is not the issue; what matters to them is whether they both exist as individuals and as a couple in the eyes of the community. But the question is, what happens after the music stops? Fassbinder answers this question by not letting the couple finish their dance: Ali collapses in pain and is taken to the hospital where he is diagnosed with a stomach ulcer, which has the potential to continue returning throughout Ali’s lifetime. According to Elsassaer, this ending is apt, as the couple now have each other functioning on a basic need and therefore not at all disgraceful as the community might regard; Ali is in need of a nurse and Emmi makes herself available as such, but through Ali’s illness, the couple also satisfies their need of a constant, and bona fide gaze, which is the doctor, who Elsassaer refers to as “an institutionally benevolent, sanitized father-figure” (48). No longer are they under the scrutiny of judgment, but the couple is legitimatized through Ali’s illness giving everyone involved a functioning and acceptable role; “role,” as mentioned earlier, is what gives characters a sense of identity, thus, both Ali and Emmi find a sense of identity in the end.

Elsassaer concludes his point on the gaze that “for the German cinema to exist, it first had to be seen by non-Germans,” thus referring to German cinema’s need to be seen in order to be felt legitimized by spectators (52). To Elsaesser, the cinematic apparatus is a reaffirming gaze that brings comfort to the character knowing that he/she is in existence; the viewer is the legitimizing gaze—the bona fide one, much like that of the doctor in Ali: Fear Eats the Soul—and behaves as the object that provides meaning for not only the character in the film, but also the filmmaker and the film itself thus bringing comfort and pleasure.

(originally posted on a student bulletin board for FTV215B at UCLA’s FTVDM site by author on 9/30/2015.)


film analysis blog posts to come

For a film class at UCLA, we are required to submit “blog-style” posts regarding readings and film screenings we had during the week. I’m somewhat new to film analysis but it’s so much fun. It’s like philosophy meets essay meets poetry meets critical thinking.

I’ll be sharing some of them here on my website, and here on the home page’s Blog Post area.

Thank you for reading.



The Victor in VICTORIA (2015)


I’d say that the victor in the new German film Victoria by Sebastian Schipper is the filmmaker himself. Victoria is an Adopt Films release (in the US; sales agent is The Match Factory) that runs 138 minutes. It was shot in one take. Of course, the concept of a one take film is not new. We’ve seen it before, and not too long ago; Alexander Sokurov shot Russian Ark (2002) inside one museum with more than 2,000 actors, but what makes Victoria such a feat is that it wasn’t shot in one space with rehearsed actors and lines. Schipper filmed Victoria in various locations throughout Berlin (albeit all of which were within proximity to one another) and the actors improvised all the lines and actions based on Schipper’s 12-paged script.

During the Q&A after the Melnitz Movies screening last night at James Bridges Theater, Schipper told audiences that trusting in actors is the biggest learning curve he accomplished during this shoot. Schipper, who is himself an actor and was in another well-known German film–Run Lola Run (1998) mentioned that if it weren’t for his lead actor Laia Costa’s cool, fun and lax approach towards such a high pressure shooting schedule, the anxiety would have taken him over.

What impressed me the most about this film is the scale of production. For a movie with such a simple story line, it is quite full of events. SPOILER ALERT: There’s a piano scene, there’s a shoot out, there is vomiting, there are police cars and choppers, there is a hotel room, there is screaming, crying, laughing, kissing and nudity. On the one hand, I can imagine any other young and ambitious filmmaker wanting to do something like this right out of graduating UCLA or Tisch. On the other hand, the scale of this movie does make it indeed a movie-going experience.

What was most stunning to me was the ending, and I could not look at the screen without my mouth open. Watching Victoria walk away from all the events of her night towards her future was to me so unbelievable. And that’s exactly, as Schipper put it last night, how the filmmaker himself felt after he watched the final cut of the movie–a movie that he took three takes in order to accomplish, and a movie that he was able to edit with each time with the actors and the production itself, and not in post.

Victoria is a movie that shocks and moves. I thoroughly enjoyed it.