Veteran filmmaker, Frederick Wiseman, widely considered the pre-eminent documentarian to emerge from the 1960s, has always said he considers his approach closer to that of a novelist rather than a director.

In three films by Icelandic director Hlynur Pálmason, there is a moment of rupture in which the narrative is held up and we see instead a montage of various characters standing still and looking directly at the camera – an example of what has been called a planimetric shot. This particular type of shot, in which the camera is positioned directly perpendicular to its subject, appears to flatten characters against backgrounds on screen, in much the same way that a portrait photograph might.

Voices in Caryl Churchill’s plays swell and ripple and surge, but they are an unquiet river in whose streambed is hidden the unspeakable, the incomprehensible. Like Samuel Beckett and Harold Pinter – the two playwrights with whom she is most often compared – Churchill is a doyenne of the unspoken, silences manifesting as much through their presence as their absence.

The Weekend is a Trojan horse of a play. In setting and humour, the production shares a family resemblance to many of David Williamson’s comedies of middle-class manners. The scene is a beach house on the Central Coast of New South Wales over Christmas. Our characters are three white women of seeming privilege in their early seventies who throw around one-liners about sourdough bread and poke fun at the excesses of enfant terrible male theatre directors (think Simon Stone or Benedict Andrews). The women even dance, Big Chill style, to a Carole King song as they reminisce about their youth.

Amilcare Ponchielli (1834–86) wrote ten operas, but only one of them is still performed – La Gioconda – and few attending Opera Australia’s concert performances in Sydney will have heard it often.

Wes Anderson’s films divide audiences; not so much because of their content (rarely does he openly court controversy) but because of their style. When the trailer for Anderson’s latest film, Asteroid City, first appeared online, those eager to dismiss it on social media wrote: ‘Wes Anderson has made his film again.’ It is a comment that cuts both ways.

A century ago, as Australia’s nascent capital planned its performing-arts future, it opted for a ‘commodious’ assembly hall, serving conference and recreational purposes, and doubling as a municipal theatre. Completed in 1928, Albert Hall was to be the ‘centre from which will radiate all those aspirations that are truly national’, as then Prime Minister Stanley Melbourne Bruce pompously intoned at its opening. Since then, the Hall’s record has been less illustrious, often housing carpet or shoe sales, community fairs or eisteddfods. With its peeling ceiling, drooping curtains, winter draughts, and cramped, overly elevated stage, it has proven a challenge to several generations of concert entrepreneurs.

The current show at Monash University Museum of Art, Thin Skin, is notable as the largest institutional exhibition in Victoria dedicated solely to contemporary painting in nearly a decade. Presumably for this reason, there has been much logistical support from MUMA for the new exhibition. A quarter of the thirty-six works here are new commissions by MUMA for the exhibition, while others have been borrowed from interstate and international collections.

Writer–director Christopher Nolan is locked in an ongoing, well-documented wrestling match with linear time. With each new film, he attempts to find some unique way of slicing, dicing, and interrogating it. Memento (2000) gave us a crime thriller told entirely out of order; Inception (2010) used an ingenious nesting-doll conceit for its thrilling dream heists; Interstellar (2014) dabbled in relativity; Dunkirk (2017) juggled three parallel timelines.

Unlike his compatriot Jan Vermeer, Rembrandt van Rijn was never forgotten. Like a Beethoven of visual art, he has always been a beacon and has always inspired later artists. Famous for his biblical storytelling on a symphonic scale, he was also a supreme portraitist and master of the self-portrait in oils (he made more than forty). Public familiarity with Rembrandt’s oeuvre in the centuries before photography came from his unmatched mastery of the artist’s print.