Jeanne Dielman, 23 quai du Commerce, 1080 Bruxelles

A meticulous housewife’s tightly controlled routine slowly unravels over three days, exposing the quiet despair and buried tensions beneath her domestic rituals.

NOTE: Below is a review I originally wrote for my Letterboxd account some months ago before uploading it here. This explains to brief mention of “reviews, on this site or others.”

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It’s interesting how we project our own interpretation on art. Without prior context, I might have initially read Jeanne Dielman as a meditation on capitalistic alienation and existential despair, rather than a feminist social commentary which often anchors discussions of the film (Akerman herself rejected the label of “feminist filmmaker”, perhaps to avoid restrictive framing). And yet, such analyses (i.e. feminist social critiques) bias my own rewatching. 

What’s most obvious about the film is its pacing, to the point detractors of the film are the first to point this aspect out, calling it “pretentious” or “self-indulgent” or any other pejorative descriptor. Ironically, I think defenders of the film unintentionally trivialize the film’s deliberate slowness (“but that’s the point [to be ‘boring’]!”) when they refuse to engage in questions over whether or not tedium aestheticizes Jeanne’s suffering or instead invites empathy. I actually think there are interesting questions to be posed from critiques over the supposed “boringness” of the film. Does Jeanne Dielman’s pacing open up space for reflection, or is it closing off that space through disengagement? Certainly, some defenders are at least partially self-aware of the film’s challenging formalities given they often refer to the film as an exercise in patience. Bold choices like this invite both critical interrogation and simplistic dismissal. While some discussions have been productive, others may dismiss the film outright. I myself thought about the oh-so very clever one liners I could write as a review of this film, but such quips miss the film’s depth (though I still think “John Vealman” is pretty good). 

If the viewer can look past their own boredom they may instead begin to focus on what is literally being depicted on screen. In particular, Akerman’s prolonged takes and meticulous framing are essential to the film’s identity. Each shot’s unrelenting focus on domestic routines elevate banal actions into high art (however we want to define that), and we can discuss its formal innovations until we’re blue in the face. I think what’s most apparent when reading reviews of this film, on this site or others, is that there is a tendency to examine the technical aspects of the film over its emotional or narrative resonance (with exceptions of course). We might then see discussions around the film’s technical prowess and art-house sensibilities as a dialectic in aesthetic elevation over the immediacy of Jeanne’s emotional plight. Is the film too self-aware in its deconstruction of narrative? Of filmic language? The precision of Akerman’s compositions一her symmetrical framing, the sparse pops of color, the exact timing of her cuts一invites admiration of the filmmaker’s craft. Indeed, the film is a technical marvel. However, does this analytical distance remove us from empathizing with Jeanne’s own experience? In this way, we could view Jeanne Dielman as a film about its own style, where the audience is encouraged to reflect on the act of watching rather than fully immersing themselves in Jeanne’s internal struggles. Depending on Akerman’s personal intention, we might consider whether she aimed to evoke a certain emotional response or challenge cinematic expectations. Maybe what the artist intended isn’t even relevant. Regardless, the film’s apparent self-awareness asks us to confront our own viewing habits and biases, and ironically, the film itself. 

As such, the film’s form is both central to its social critique but also risks undermining it if the viewer lacks introspection. Akerman portrays Jeanne’s routine in impressive, excruciating detail where the monotony of domestic labor is particularly emphasized. Is this approach, then, an inadvertent aestheticization of the drudgery the film seeks to critique? The choreography of tasks like peeling potatoes and folding linens transforms them into objects of visual and rhythmic fascination as we come to appreciate their formal qualities rather than their oppressive repetition. This, of course, places us in a paradoxical situation: are we meant to feel the weight of Jeanne’s alienation, or are we encouraged to admire the artistry with which it is presented? If the latter, I think there may be a risk of turning Jeanne’s labor into spectacle rather than a lived experience for empathetic engagement (and anecdotally, Letterboxd users’ lack of critical engagement with this tension furthers my point). 

If so, the film could be seen as potentially placing its viewers in a voyeuristic position. To force us to sit with Jeanne’s routine for such prolonged periods of time, we turn her life into something to be observed, dissected, analyzed. On one hand this probably aligns with most traditional discussions revolving around the film; that the film’s central project is to critique how women’s labor and lives are trivialized in patriarchal societies. However, the more detached the audience becomes from Jeanne’s own internal strifes, we may unintentionally replicate the objectification Akerman seeks to question. 

Voyeurism is particularly fraught in this film if we view it through a feminist lens. Ironically, though Akerman seeks to make Jeanne’s invisibilized labor visible, the unrelenting gaze of the camera一and by extension, the audience一renders her life as a sort of spectacle. Discussions of the film analyze the divergent peculiarities of repetitive actions一the shoes, the meal prepping, Jeanne’s errands, etc. Are we not, then, objectifying Jeanne’s suffering, presenting her as a symbol of patriarchal oppression rather than a fully realized person? Further, are we complicit in Jeanne’s alienation as filmic voyeurs, or are we meant to feel implicated in the structures that perpetuate her suffering? It’s a question Hitchcock might have posed in his own explorations of voyeurism.

Analyzing this film from a feminist lens makes these questions especially significant. Akerman’s depiction of Jeanne in real-time is a radical act of defiance against traditional narrative cinema which often limits women’s roles as passive objects or plot devices. This systematic erasure is brilliantly captured in Jeanne's interactions with her son, who at one point condescendingly suggests what he’d do if he were a woman in a particular situation. Jeanne’s following line "but you're not a woman" encapsulates how women's specific experiences are perpetually minimized. The son's casual mansplaining becomes a microcosm of larger patriarchal dynamics: women's lived realities are consistently explained away, their interior lives seen as irrelevant by both filmmakers and society at large. Yet in depicting these moments, given the inherent, observational qualities of slow cinema, are we subverting objectification or reproducing it? The static, observational camera gives Jeanne autonomy in the frame, but it also denies her privacy as it exposes her most mundane and vulnerable moments to the audience’s gaze. Perhaps this tension enhances the film’s critique as we are forced to confront our own complicity in systems of observation and judgment. Maybe it weakens it by “framing” (haha) Jeanne as a subject of detached scrutiny rather than solidarity. 

I think ultimately what makes this film intriguing is that the film’s style challenges us to question our own relationship with cinema: are we passive voyeurs complicit in Jeanne’s alienation or are we active participants in dismantling systems that render women like her invisible? This ambiguity is part of what makes Jeanne Dielman so enduringly provocative as it refuses to offer easy answers and leaves us with our own discomfort and complicity. Yet, this same ambiguity invites valid critiques: does the film’s self-awareness undermine its emotional resonance? Does it aestheticize suffering? And, perhaps most crucially, does the act of watching Jeanne’s life as a spectacle risk replicating the very dynamics that the film seeks to expose?

Metropolis

In a futuristic city sharply divided between the working class and the city planners, the son of the city's mastermind falls in love with a working-class prophet who predicts the coming of a savior to mediate their differences.

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This film begins with a title card detailing how nearly a quarter of the film has been lost. I don’t believe I was aware of this fact before my initial viewing of this film, and it’s not something I could entirely disassociate myself from during the rest of my watch.

Cultural memory can be considered both fragile and defiant. Lang’s film, as well as the art destroyed under the Nazi regime a few years after the release of Metropolis, may come to illustrate two poignant forms of cultural loss—one accidental, the other intentional. Destruction, in this context, is not simply the physical removal of objects but a means of controlling memory itself. When the Nazis declared certain artworks "degenerate," they were not merely erasing physical pieces but shaping the narrative of cultural identity and collective history. What was deemed "acceptable" was preserved, while what was "othered" or "dangerous" was erased, often with violent intent. This act of destruction itself becomes a form of historical narrative, one that reflects the power dynamics of those in control, dictating what will be remembered and what will fade into oblivion. Therefore, Metropolis is an artifact that transcends its creators, as analysis has been shaped and reshaped over time. Yet, its legacy is not without complications. Thea von Harbou, the screenwriter, later aligned herself with the Nazi Party. This dissonance raises questions about the intersections of art, ideology, and memory: how can a work that critiques industrial exploitation and authoritarian control be reconciled with the personal politics of its creators? The answer lies in the collaborative nature of cinema and the ways cultural memory evolves. Fritz Lang, who fled Germany to escape Nazi rule, rejected such authoritarianism, and the film’s resonance today reflects not von Harbou’s politics but the enduring power of its themes, shaped by those who have preserved and reinterpreted it over decades.

In contrast, the fragmented history of Metropolis is the result of circumstance: distributors' cuts and archival mishaps rather than ideological malice. Yet, even in its incomplete form, the film's preservation and ongoing restoration efforts confront the fragility of cultural memory and challenge the notion of a static or final version of history. If we contend that meaning is fleeting and impermanent, yet still worth pursuing, memory praxis involves us engaging with fragments of the past in the knowledge that they are incomplete, thereby valuing their transitory significance.

Consider Metropolis: when it premiered in 1927, Lang’s science fiction epic was certainly captivating (a German critic from the Berliner Morgenpost suggested that the film’s most spectacular scenes were met with “spontaneous applause”). But within months, the film was drastically cut to satisfy distributors, much of it being discarded. For decades, this film was known only in its truncated form, its cinematic grandeur reduced to a shadow of itself. Fortunately, in 2008, a near complete print in Buenos Aires surfaced in a film archive (“For me, she is not dead, Job Fredersen, - for me, she lives - - !”), though even still, segments are missing. Perhaps I’ve become more sentimental as I’ve gotten older, but while watching this film, I couldn’t help but simultaneously marvel at both the amazing expressionistic sets while mourning the absences lost due to a precarious history.
In contrast, the destruction of art under the Nazis was calculated and ideological. Works by Chagall, Kandinsky, and many others were condemned as “degenerate” and systematically removed from museums, auctioned off, or destroyed in public spectacles meant to cleanse German culture (famous pictures of book burnings document these events). This destruction, fueled by ideological control, was an active attempt to shape the future of cultural memory, imposing a specific vision of the past that justified political power. Yet even here, sketches discovered in attics, canvases repatriated decades later, and catalog entries that outlasted the paintings they described, bear witness to what was lost and invite us to imagine what once was.

What unites these stories is our human impulse to resist forgetting. Efforts to restore Lang’s film or recover Nazi-looted art are not simply acts of preservation; they are acts of defiance. They assert that even in incompleteness, fragments carry meaning, and that cultural memory is not static but alive as it is shaped by our efforts to engage with it. In the absence of wholeness, the process of recovering itself becomes meaningful as a way of reconstructing narratives, even if they can never be fully restored.

And yet, this tension between destruction and recovery reveals the paradox of engaging with fragmentations: often, their significance is amplified. The missing segments of Metropolis do not diminish the film’s power but add to its mystique, as its viewing experience becomes a meditation on both loss and resilience. Similarly, scattered remnants of Nazi-destroyed art become symbols of resistance against the forces that sought their destruction. In other words, they are symbolic of a cultural defiance.

In particular, the score of Metropolis serves as a fascinating example of cultural resonance. Beyond the chord progression later repurposed for Kubrick’s The Shining, the film integrates the motif from the French national anthem, La Marseillaise. This choice infuses the film’s dystopian landscape with a symbolic evocation of revolutionary ideals—liberty, equality, and fraternity—that starkly contrasts with the oppressive hierarchies depicted on screen. Intentional or not, such musical choices reflect the film’s historical context while inviting reinterpretation by modern audiences. Kubrick famously adopted this macabre progression (historically a funeral procession) for his own horror masterpiece, which evokes new meanings, shaped by his cultural (and no doubt, socio-political) worldviews. Lang’s dystopian vision thus finds an afterlife in the foreboding corridors of the Overlook Hotel (and subsequently the minds of over-analytical conspiracy theorists everywhere). These examples underscore how memory, like art, is an evolving, interconnected phenomenon, where fragments of the past are woven into contemporary contexts. The strains of La Marseillaise and Kubrick’s reimagined progression may then be seen as historical fragments both enduring and transforming a resilient cultural memory.

Lang's film stands out for many reasons, but its portrayal of cultural memory—through both its partial loss and fragmented restoration—engages with history in its broken form. Instead of perfection, memory asks us to find meaning in what endures. The ongoing efforts to recover lost works, whether it's Metropolis, art destroyed by the Nazis, or others, suggest not only the importance of the past but also our ability to create new significance from its pieces.

Reel Reflections

I’ve found film theory and criticism to be a fascinating topic for quite some time. I figured it might be fun to write some of my own, primarily as a means to deepen my own understanding of film, but also to spark an interest in the topic among others. I do not have the time to review every film I watch, but, when I see fit, I may upload reviews to my blog if I find them to be of intellectual interest.

An Introduction

For my first blog post, I figured I’d go into a little more detail about myself, both personally and professionally.

This blog will mostly be dedicated to project updates, film viewings and reading habits, travel adventures, and general life updates.

I’ve always had an interest in learning foreign languages and have recently gotten back into learning French. I’ve spent most of high school and college learning the language but fell out of love around the beginning of the pandemic. This past month, I’ve picked it back up and hope to regain my proficiency. Souhaite-moi bonne chance!

In addition, I’ve also started learning Japanese. My interest in Japanese culture laid its roots when I first discovered the filmmakers Akira Kurosawa and Yasajuro Ozu. These masters of Japanese cinema, as well as my proclivity for martial arts such as Karate and Judo, sparked my interest in Japan. I was also interested in challenging myself to learn a language not based on Latin script (i.e. Germanic, Romance, and West Slavic languages). 学びに乾杯!

I am currently in post-production on my first narrative short titled “Night Rain”. It is about a young girl who struggles to recognize the death of her mother on her birthday. My goal is to have it finished and ready to send out to festivals by the New Year. More information coming soon!