The Lion King review – Disney’s Broadway juggernaut roars to life in Sydney

Capitol theatre, Sydney With breathtaking aesthetics and joyous performances, the audacious adaptation – now almost 30 years old – is greater than the sum of its parts Get our weekend culture and lifestyle email The opening of The Lion King is a bona fide five-star moment that reminds you why this musical still rules the theatrical savannah. Forgoing the sentimentality of the 1994 film and the razzle-dazzle of its Broadway peers at the time, it taps into more primal, powerful delights. From its first incantation (translated as “All hail the king” – or “Look, a lion, oh my god”, depending on who you ask ), it builds with a chant, a gathering of human bodies, and finally a procession of animals that leaves the stage to come into the audience, enveloping you in a kind of choreographed ritual. (This is a good moment to check in on your date; if they’re not Having Feelings, they may be some kind of joyless ghoul.) This sequence encapsulates the best of the show: director Julie Taymor...

Last Tango in Paris at 50: Bertolucci’s controversial drama remains troubling

The Italian director’s knotty drama remains a provocation, a film filled with lyrical beauty but also repulsive cruelty

Revisiting films on the occasion of major anniversaries can be a disorienting reminder of time’s too-swift passage: that film is now 20/30/40 years old? How can that be? Why does it still feel so much younger than I do? In other cases, however, the film wears its advanced age in a way that makes complete sense, and so it is with Last Tango in Paris, released in cinemas in 1973. Now a half-century old, Bernardo Bertolucci’s lightning rod for scandal and debate has dated in many of the ways you might expect, but that’s not quite what I mean: at 50, the film’s age has now caught up with the overriding air of middle-aged despair and disarray that it always carried. In a sense, it was a film made to be forgotten, and then remembered with bittersweet, conflicted feelings, its significant beauty curdled over time.

Bring up Last Tango in Paris in cinephile circles today – especially those reckoning with the gender politics of the artform post-MeToo – and you won’t hear that many fond endorsements. When it’s brought up at all, the conversation swiftly narrows to its most notorious scene: the one where Marlon Brando’s Paul, a recently widowed American abroad, holed up in a desolately furnished Parisian apartment, forces himself on Maria Schneider’s Jeanne, a 20-year-old ingenue whose name he refuses to learn. Grabbing a dab of fridge-cold butter for lubrication, he anally rapes her.

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