Author Indigo Bailey

So the rule for cultural Europe is to organise the death of the art of living, which still flourishes When it’s time to close the book, I will have no regrets. I’ve seen so many people live so badly, and so ma...

History is full of people who just didn’t. They said no thank you, turned away, ran away to the desert, stood on the streets in rags, lived in barrels, burned down their own houses, walked barefoot through town...

“I still believe in the beauty of the act,” replies Monsieur Oscar, Denis Lavant’s shapeshifting cipher in Holy Motors (2012), when asked by Michel Piccoli why he goes on occupying life after pitiful life. In L...

“A neutralised angel, in my case, wingless,” Elia Suleiman says of the fictionalised self who appears throughout his oeuvre, likening his double to the dispirited angels observing post-war Berlin in Wim Wenders...

At all three screenings I attended of Leos Carax’s incandescent rock opera, Annette (2021), at my local theatre, the already sparse audience trickled from the room. Those who had survived Adam Driver’s sweat-so...