Author: George and Josh Bate

A Private Life: Review. By George & Josh Bate.

As practicing therapists and film critics with a particular love for murder mysteries, A Private Life appears to be the perfect intersection of our often discrepant interests. A concoction of promising ingredients that appeal to our dual careers, however, result in a movie that, while bolstering a compelling turn from Jodie Foster, crumbles under the weight of its abstract themes.

From director and co-writer Rebecca Zlotowski, A Private Life stars Jodie Foster as Lilian Steiner, an American psychoanalyst living and working in France. Upon learning of the apparent suicide of one of her patients, Paula (Virgine Efira), Lilian launches an investigation as she becomes convinced that her patient was murdered. 

Despite its modern day setting, there is a vintage, and even timeless, quality to A Private Life. Filming on-location in Paris, the film features architecture and backdrops centuries old. Despite the occasional appearance of an iPhone, Foster’s Lilian records all of her sessions with old cassette tapes. Even the very nature of Lilian’s practice as a Freud-inspired psychoanalyst, a far cry from the modal therapist in contemporary Western culture, harkens back to an era decades prior. In turn, the film often tricks the viewer, unintentionally or intentionally, into believing they are watching a film set in the past.

With opening titles accompanied by Talking Heads’ “Psycho Killer,” Zlotowski’s film further fosters a unique, time-transcending viewing experience with its willingness to lean into Hitchcockian sensibilities and nods to Hollywood’s Golden Age. A Private Lifebegins much like a classic Hitchcock-helmed thriller, with a lead character who suspects something is awry when others do not and an intriguing mystery to unravel. Having seen Paula for nine years in therapy, Lilian’s instincts tell her that her patient did not commit suicide, an initial suspicion that evolves as she dives deeper into Paula’s life and faces pushback for her inquiries.

The set-up is succinct and brisk, quickly grabbing the audience’s attention and allowing us to accompany Foster’s psychoanalyst-turned-sleuth as she uncovers clues and undertakes an investigation. This blend of Hitchcockian psychological thriller and whodunnit, coupled with an unexpectedly charming and old-fashioned remarriage comedy, imbue A Private Life with the feel of a film from Hollywood’s Golden Age and create a cozy, throwback movie to immerse oneself in.

As the mystery intrigues and the reemerging romance between Foster’s Lilian and her ex-husband Gaby (Daniel Auteuil) blossoms,A Private Life derails with a steady rise in its abstract exploration of psychoanalysis and antisemitism. A dream (or perhaps better described as a vision sequence) involving Lilian and Paula as musicians in a concert hall during World War II reoccurs throughout the film. Zlotowski doesn’t try to mislead the audience into thinking this vision sequence is actually happening, but that doesn’t mean it is devoid of meaning. As a psychoanalyst, dreams and the contents of the subconscious are important and shed light on human beings’ inner-workings and deepest insecurities. For Lillian, this becomes clearer as a version of her son Julien (Vincent Lacoste) as a Nazi officer appears in this hypnotic concert hall.

Aligned with the teachings of Sigmund Freud and Jacques Lacan, Zlotowski leaves the true meaning of these recurring visions up to interpretation, but the filmmaker opts to leave things so abstract that it’s difficult to extract any purpose of these sequences. The Holocaust obviously is an integral part of French history, as it is the family history of Zlotowski, and a fleeting accusation of antisemitism directed at a hypnotist by Lillian plants the seed that the film will dabble in this subject matter. And the inclusion of Lillian’s son amidst these visions is put into context as we learn more of her ambivalent relationship with him and his newborn son. However, the visions are absent of the substance and emotion necessary to make all of these threads come together.

A Private Life doesn’t stop there with its attempts at dramatizing the process of psychoanalysis. Over the course of the film, Lillian increasingly projects herself onto her deceased patient and leads her to pursue a mystery that is ultimately more about self-discovery than it is uncovering the identity of a murderer. In this sense, Zlotowski’s film progressively loses sight of what made it so intriguing in the first place as it loses its once iron-glad grip on the balance between murder mystery and psychoanalytic allegory.

This loss of balance rears its ugly head the most in a remarkably underwhelming resolution. The strength of a performance from Jodie Foster that requires the actress to largely convey her intellectual activity and emotional turmoil without the use of dialogue only carries A Private Life so far and, eventually, even that can’t save Zlotowski’s film from ruin. Not only does the film overly embrace its more abstract sensibilities, but it provides a conclusion to the whodunit that is destined to disappoint anyone even moderately invested in identifying the killer. Admittedly, this reveal does effectively illustrate A Private Life’s central message and leaves the viewer with interesting points about guilt, responsibility, and projection to ponder, although this messaging comes at the expense of a powerful ending to its core narrative.

Rating: 5/10

A Private Life blends Hitchockian thriller, whodunnit, remarriage comedy, and an examination of psychoanalysis together for a film that, while initially intriguing and bolstering a compelling performance from Jodie Foster, steadily loses its way. Rebecca Zlotowski’s film possesses a fascinatingly timeless quality to it, with nods to Hollywood’s Golden Age and a focus on a form of psychotherapy that harkens back to an era decades prior unfolding amidst the backdrop of centuries-old Parisian architecture.

The result is a cozy and atmospheric film, made all the more interesting by a succinct set-up for a solid murder mystery. A Private Life derails from its study foundation, however, with an abstract exploration of psychoanalysis, antisemitism, and maternal ambivalence best showcased through recurring vision sequences that leave too much up for interpretation. The once deft balance between murder mystery and allegory of psychoanalysis slowly crumbles, culminating in a remarkably underwhelming resolution that prioritizes its central message over an effective conclusion to its core narrative. 

A Private Life appears to have the perfect concoction of ingredients to appeal to those who, like us, are practicing therapists and murder mystery-obsessed film critics. Regrettably, these ingredients don’t come together as seamlessly as one would hope and leave one feeling like they just observed a session of Freudian psychoanalysis rather than a full-fledged, well-developed film.

Die My Love: The BRWC Review. By George & Josh Bate

Lynne Ramsay has cultivated a reputation for films that are as expertly crafted as they are difficult to stomach. Without exception, her filmography features subject matters, characters, and imagery that push the boundaries of comfort in uncompromising fashion, rendering Ramsay a must-watch, albeit divisive, director. Her latest effort, Die My Love, is no exception to this track record, although its bleak, tedious, and even grueling nature make it a rare misfire for the filmmaker.

Based on Ariana Harwicz’s novel Die, My Love, Ramsay’s new film follows Grace (Jennifer Lawrence) and Jackson (Robert Pattinson), a young couple who move from New York City to an old family house deep in the country. As the couple settles in and welcomes a baby boy soon after, Grace’s mental health unravels, pushing her once strong relationship with Jackson to its limits.

Crowd-pleasing and enjoyable aren’t two terms that typically come to mind when describing a Lynne Ramsay film, but they are particularly ill-suited to describe Die My Love. Encased in an almost claustrophobic 1.33:1 Academy aspect ratio, Ramsay’s film begins much like a horror film, not dissimilar from The Amityville Horror. A bright and deeply-in-love couple relocate to a new home, only to discover that terrifying events await. It’s a slow beginning that already begins to test the patience of its audience, but immediately the viewer’s eye is drawn to Jennifer Lawrence and, for the remaining two hours or so, finds it rarely going astray. 

From the get-go, there’s something unusual yet endearing about Lawrence’s Grace. She is playful, pulling funny faces, putting on strange voices, and crawling around the house and the garden like a wild animal. Pattinson’s Jackson, at least initially, meets Grace’s oddities with similarly weird behaviors. Although initially off-putting, the bizarre behaviors of Grace and Jackson soon become somewhat touching as it is clear they are evidence of a couple so in love that they are free of all inhibition. Over the course of the film, however, as Grace’s mental health slowly deteriorates, so do her playful behaviors and attitude.

Die My Love is not a horror movie, at least in the traditional sense, although watching Grace’s deterioration proves disturbing. Ramsay implies, at least initially, that Grace’s mental health difficulties spawn from post-partum depression, but, through various flashbacks, the broader trajectory of Grace’s mental health becomes clearer and suggests issues are deeper rooted than initially thought. Ramsay opts for a less conventional portrayal of post-partum depression as she chooses to never have Grace overtly explain just why her mood is so low and behaviors so erratic, which results in a more raw and unflinching depiction of mental health issues.

Despite its admirable rawness, however, Die My Love tests your patience with its repetitive and predictable narrative. Every scene, many of which are shot in a barely visible night by cinematographer Seamus McGarvey, are dedicated to showing Grace’s ever-declining mental state. In doing so, the film quickly adopts the tediousness and frustration that our lead character experiences, creating a unique, albeit rather unenjoyable, parallel experience between viewer and character. At its best moments, Die My Love is tedious, but, at its worst, the film is grueling, difficult to watch, and even put us in a bad mood, once again paralleling Grace’s deteriorating health. 

With what is ultimately the film’s saving grace, Die My Love latches onto a thread of interest with moral questions it poses to the viewer. Throughout the film, Grace makes a number of bad decisions, ranging from being rude to a cashier to harming an animal to other egregious acts. In having our protagonist stoop to these lows, Ramsay invites the audience to look inward and question the limits of their empathy. Grace does a variety of wrong things, but where does depression end and culpability begin? Should we be held accountable or forgiven for our wrong-doings if they are brought about by poor mental health? And what does it say about us, as viewers, if our empathy for Grace erodes as she becomes more depressed? If one can make their way through the tortuous slog of a story, there’s much of interest and relevance to ponder here.

Regardless of how unpleasant Die My Love can be, Jennifer Lawrence’s tour de force performance never ceases to amaze. Although another A-list actor in Robert Pattinson stars in the film, Die My Love is firmly Lawrence’s playground, where she is given free reign by Ramsay to explore all the intricacies and depths of a character undergoing an identity crisis, postpartum depression, and a deteriorating marriage. Lawrence fully immerses herself in her character, coming across as believable and realistic as Grace, in a way that blurs the lines of fiction and reality for the viewer. 

Pattinson, meanwhile, in a far more limited role, grows into the film as the runtime progresses as Ramsay explores how loving someone and understanding them do not always go hand-in-hand. Despite all of her actions and his inability to wrap his head around them, Pattinson’s Jackson continues to stand by Grace, defending her against other family members and supporting her in ways he thinks are best. Their bond makes for a surprisingly moving, yet certainly subversive love story.

Unfortunately, the strength of Lawrence and Pattinson’s performances do little to offset a disastrous ending for Die My Love. The unpleasantries amplify tenfold with a bleak conclusion that offers nothing of substantive interest and quickly quells any potential to expand on various moral questions posed. 

Rating: 3.5/10

Lynne Ramsay has made a career of expertly crafted yet difficult to stomach films, and Die My Love is no exception. Encased in an almost claustrophobic 1.33:1 Academy aspect ratio, her latest effort begins slowly with the barebones of a horror movie before evolving into a raw, unflinching, and decidedly unpleasant portrayal of mental health, in particular postpartum depression and identity crises. The film tests your patience with a repetitive and predictable narrative that elicits in the audience the same kind of frustration and monotony our lead character experiences, creating a unique, albeit rather enjoyable, parallel process between viewer and character. Ramsay eventually lands on something more interesting as she invites audiences to look inward and question the limits of their empathy. These questions are as thought-provoking as they are due to a tour de force performance from Jennifer Lawrence, who fully immerses herself in an uncannily believable manner that blurs the lines between fiction and reality. Unfortunately, the strength of her performance does little to offset a disastrous and bleak conclusion that leaves one questioning what the purpose of the preceding tortuous slog was. Lynne Ramsay is a phenomenal filmmaker and Jennifer Lawrence is a phenomenal actor, but Die My Love is far from a phenomenal film.

Dream Machine: Review. By George & Josh Bate.

From the inception of the genre, science fiction has used technological advancements and fantastical storytelling elements to comment on contemporary, real-world issues. In literature, George Orwell explored surveillance and totalitarianism in his seminal sci-work 1984, while Ray Bradbury examined censorship and the growing influence of technology on society in Fahrenheit 451. In cinema, the likes of Ex Machina, Minority Report, and even Jurassic Park have toyed with tenets of the sci-fi genre to provide poignant messaging about real-world problems that demand our attention presently. In the new short film Dream Machine, filmmaker Dan Egan follows suit in blending a grounded story with a heightened concept to shine a light on a long-standing yet increasingly relevant problem.

Dream Machine follows Marco (Javier Ronceros), a veteran autoshop mechanic who struggles to make a living in a near-future dominated by the commercial success of flying cars. Marco’s occupational struggles bleed into his marriage with wife Isabela (Rosa Delgado) and lead him to consume excessive alcohol to help numb the stress. As the rift in his marriage widens, Marco is presented with a novel opportunity that may save him from his troubles.

Writer/director Dan Egan fuses high-concept sci-fi with a grounded aesthetic in a manner similar to Rian Johnson’s Looper and Michael Felker’s Things Will Be Different. Initially, the world in which Dream Machine takes place looks and sounds exactly like ours, featuring a run down mechanic shop that will look all too familiar to anyone who has ever visited the U.S. But it doesn’t take long for the camera to pan out and reveal that this isn’t our contemporary world – at least not yet. A string of flying cars journey throughout the sky far above and away from the autoshop, both literally and figuratively. 

The aesthetic Egan arrives on in Dream Machine is delightfully retro-futuristic. The visual effects from VFX supervisor Texas Loveday don’t aim for realism, rather they are purposefully old-fashioned and even surreal looking. The flying cars themselves look like the crimson red Christine from John Carpenter’s classic horror film, while the VFX that brings these cars to life have a Tim Burton, almost stop-motion quality about it. It’s an interesting juxtaposition to the otherwise grounded world Marco and Isabela live in, one that blends our real world with a flavor of retro futurism not dissimilar from Tomorrowland and even this summer’s The Fantastic Four: First Steps. 

This juxtaposition speaks to just how unnatural the development of flying cars are and how deleterious this development is for the livelihoods of people like Marco. Although the short features barely any dialogue from any character, including Marco, our protagonist is an instantly relatable character with a disturbingly relatable plight. Marco’s struggles serve as a simple, yet effective allegory for the ways in which technological advancements swallow up certain occupations and people, leaving them behind to fend for themselves. History has seen this happen with assembly-line workers, switchboard operators, lamplighters, travel agents, video rental store clerks, and so on and so on. Currently, the dawn of AI is already seeing certain occupations, such as drivers, legal assistants, and proofreaders, dissipate before our eyes. Dream Machine taps into this dread of a looming future through Marco, who sees his role as a mechanic slowly slip away. Again, like the very best sci-fi stories, Egan’s short film manages to highlight an issue that demands our attention through a more fantastical storytelling lens.

As the short progresses, the story becomes even more heartbreaking as the depths of Marco’s difficulties are revealed to the audience. His turn to alcohol to drown out his pain has an effect on his wife and co-worker Isabela, but, as seen in so many marriages, she hesitates to name the elephant in the room. The way their relationship is conveyed by Egan speaks to the short’s more solemn, quiet, even minimalist tone, which fits well for a film of this length (~18 minutes) in that it doesn’t overstay its welcome. If Dream Machine were to be expanded into a feature film, one would expect it would have to stretch beyond its current tone, but, as it stands, Egan finds success with how he tells this story.

Ultimately, the story unfolds in an emotional and admirable manner that inspires, even if it doesn’t offer some profound message to the issue it examines. This may be Egan’s point, however. The problems caused by rapid technological advancements don’t have a readily available solution and, as such, Marco’s problem does not have a readily available solution. Instead, Marco is only in control of the decisions that lay before him, which may not solve the problem, but at least can allow him to adhere to his moral code. 

With a distinct visual style blending our real world with retro-futuristic, old-fashioned VFX and a story that is as relevant today as it would have been 50 or even 100 years ago, Dream Machine makes for an aesthetically interesting and thematically poignant short film.

Good Boy: Review. By George & Josh Bate.

If you’ve ever had a dog, there’s probably been a number of times in which they stared off in the distance or barked at something only they can see, experiences made all the more unnerving if they occur at night. What is our dog seeing that we can’t? Is this just some quirky behaviour or is our beloved companion noticing something insidious lurking in the shadows? Good Boy, a new film from director, co writer, and producer Ben Leonberg, uses these questions as the foundation for an ambitious, aesthetically unique, and undeniably heartbreaking journey that ranks among the most original horror movies in recent years.

Originally making its world premiere back in March at SXSW, Good Boy unfolds entirely from the perspective of an adorable canine named Indy. After his human owner Todd decides to relocate to a long-vacant family home in the country, Indy begins to notice all manner of strange occurrences, including disturbing visions of the previous owner’s death, warnings from a long-dead dog, and an ominous, invisible figure only he can see. As Indy struggles to make sense of the perplexing situation, his love for and dedication to Todd never wavers.

Bolstered by a unique premise and similarly distinctive filmmaking, Good Boy is quite unlike any horror movie ever made. Every moment of the film, without exception, is told from the perspective of our canine hero Indy, who arguably delivers the best cinematic performance from an animal of all time (Indy even won the inaugural ‘Howl of Fame’ award at SXSW for his performance). Leonberg often employs low angles to convey the perspective of Indy, in addition to close-up shots of the dog’s face laden with rich and complex emotion.

Human faces are obscured, either by darkness or distance, for virtually the entire runtime, rendering Indy the audience’s eyes and ears to behold the haunting events that occur. In telling this story from the perspective of Indy, Leonberg crafts a visually distinctive film marked by all kinds of striking shots. It is not uncommon for a film, including horror films, to have a scene or two told from a dog or animal’s perspective, but to use this storytelling approach for an entire feature makes Good Boy feel and look decidedly different than anything out there.

Making Good Boy all the more remarkable is the fact that no CGI enhancements were used to bring Indy to life. There are numerous moments in the film that will have you in awe as just how Leonberg was able to get so many brilliant, genuine reaction shots and, more generally, such a strong performance from a dog. Indy’s expressive eyes, cute whimpers, body movements, unrelenting adoration for his human owner, and endearing innocence collectively make him an extraordinarily compelling protagonist. Even in the absence of any dialogue from our hero, Indy (backed by impressive directing from Leonberg) manages to convey incredible emotion, thought, and concern that make him a main character far more compelling than most main characters in horror movies.

Although Good Boy features a lean 73-minute runtime, its repetitive narrative structure unfortunately wears thin. Including its opening, nearly every scene of Leonberg’s film unfolds similarly. Unbeknownst to Todd, a strange noise or figure in the background alerts Indy, who then ventures off to different corners of the house to investigate before he (and the audience)are treated with some kind of scare. As none of these scares are particularly unsettling, the film quickly grows repetitive and even monotonous, despite the unrelentingly enthralling turn from Indy at the heart of the story.

Rather than obscure its messaging in ambiguities, Good Boy reveals its true nature fairly early on in its runtime. That is to say, unlike your average David Lynch feature, the supernatural occurrences that Indy and the audience are privy to do not go unexplained. While the reveals and explanation could have perhaps been shrouded in more secrecy, they nonetheless work well and see Leonberg’s film become far more than just another horror film. On a more positive note, however, wearing its subtext firmly on its sleeve allows the audience to not get bogged down in theories as to why all these strange things are occurring. Instead, this allows us to look beyond theorization and hone in on the story’s emotions.

The story ultimately converges on a predictable, yet nonetheless emotionally affecting finale. It is difficult to not be moved by Indy’s unconditional love for his owner and how this love culminates in a truly devastating conclusion for the film. Once again, Indy deserves immense praise as this conclusion works as well as it does due to the dog’s immersive, genuine performance.

Rating: 7/10

Good Boy may lumber along with a repetitive narrative structure, but its filmmaking novelty and rich emotion make it one of the most devastating, original horror movies in recent years. After watching the new film, you’ll likely think differently every time your dog perplexingly stares off into the distance or barks at something you can’t see.

Good Boy is in theatres October 3, 2025