Or, rather, he blasted the 1980s specifically for its return to a 1950s-reminiscent moral and political agenda. Taylor stages violence with an unmooring sense of bodily concussion—which is rendered all the more disturbing by the film’s nasty comic streak. But that aspect is rather bland in comparison to what else the film has to offer. The film is a nostalgia act for sure, particularly for The Hitcher, but it injects that nostalgia with something hard, sad, and contemporary, or, perhaps more accurately, it reveals that our hang-ups—disenfranchisement, rootlessness, war-mongering, hypocritical evasion—haven’t changed all that much since the 1980s, or ever. Helander’s direction is assured in a manner that inspires flattering comparisons: his softly lit scenes of adolescent fear and fantasy, and of father-son estrangement, recall early Spielberg; Pietari’s (Onni Tommila) trinket-adorned room and makeshift alarm clock (involving keys, sweater thread and a basin) resembles Jean-Pierre Jeunet’s whimsies; his compassionate black comedy evokes Joe Dante’s work; and his eerie snowbound setting and premise harkens back to John Carpenter’s The Thing. Yeah, exactly. Complementing Jane’s portrait of coiled wrath, Molly Parker physicalizes the fear that informs every minute wrinkle of Arlette’s relationship with her husband, which the character attempts to paper over with bravado, inadvertently sealing her doom. Are we headed south? In Blade II, signature del Toro obsessions are on fierce display: a monarch’s fear of aging, his incessant desire to suspend time, and his messianic opponent’s own conflicted sense of past and future.
“Am I here?” the girl asks while playing the drinking game known to us as Celebrity. Unfolding over the course of a long day, the film follows parents as they’re driven to kill their children in a mass outbreak of violence. Edward Lachman’s sourball-candied cinematography and Air’s languid musical theme were key ingredients in this smart, regretful fairy tale of the failed rescue of a quintet of Michigan Rapunzels from their repressive parents by a chorus of clueless, telescope-equipped local swains. I do think we don’t understand the dimensions of it. Ganja & Hess, which has been retroactively, circumstantially cast as a berserk dash toward career suicide on Gunn’s part, is so singular, so opaque, that it doesn’t even have the draw of commerce-friendly exoticism. The film kicks in with a hum; a low sound, like the sound of a car’s revving engine, rides underneath the rock song that accompanies the opening credits, enveloping and overwhelming viewers until they’re disarmed. It registers: “I am here.” Remarkably, Coppola doesn’t ask us to take Marie Antoinette as she thinks she was, but as she probably was: a little girl who didn’t know better. And then we played those back to back. Strip away the Art Deco glory of its towering cityscapes and factories and the synchronized movements of those who move through those environments and what’s even left? All rights reserved. The opening scenes are suitably estranging, as we’re made to identify with a character for whom all context is withheld by his own mind. Review: Standoff. The first half has an (intentional) air of the faintly ridiculous about it, embodied equally by Christopher Lee’s gloriously campy portrayal of the cult’s leader and the life-on-the-island sequences that are Pythonesque in their absurdist look at culture clash. But what matters here is that the love is real. Gonzalez, The Guest is carried by an intense and surprising mood of erotic melancholia. Heidi Ewing’s tale of immigration and deportation afflicting the lives of a Mexican gay couple flashes its reason for being at every turn. Inevitably, it’ll be an incredibly emotionally powerful thing. This time, it’s a white cross on a black background, and the image conjures a certain symbol of white supremacy in a film that, composed entirely of black characters coming to terms with trauma, can be read as an allegory for diasporic amnesia. By contrast, Jonathan Demme’s The Silence of the Lambs is grounded in the psyche of a ferocious yet unproven female protagonist, whose thoughtful fragility intensifies the film’s violence, invigorating it with a sense of dread and violation. In conjunction with the release of On the Rocks, we ranked Coppola’s films. Alleca’s filmmaking is efficient and occasionally even elegant, as illustrated by a single shot that shows both Sade and Carter occupying their respective portions of the latter’s home, resting and planning their attacks. By. Here, the filmmaker utilizes his command of medium for more individualized purposes. It’s a clever concept in theory, but instead of allowing for the specificity of her characters’ predicaments to seep into the story—surreptitiously, poetically—Ewing is committed above all else to sentimentalizing Iván and Gerardo’s separation. That a piece of digital entertainment released by Amazon Studios raises such questions is, yes, a distressing irony. For every eviscerated remake or toothless throwback, there’s a startlingly fresh take on the genre’s most time-honored tropes; for every milquetoast PG-13 compromise, there’s a ferocious take-no-prisoners attempt to push the envelope on what we can honestly say about ourselves. Thank you for your support. Bowen, Throughout Invasion of the Body Snatchers, one of the subtlest and most extraordinarily fluid of American horror films, Philip Kaufman crafts textured scenes, rich in emotional and object-centric tactility, that cause our heads to casually spin with expectation and dread. Budd Wilkins, John Pogue is an elegant framer of even the most mundane action, orchestrating the film’s consistently chilly unease from a series of unassuming jolts embedded in the humdrum. Horror films remain perennially popular, despite periodic (and always exaggerated) rumors of their demise, even in the face of steadily declining ticket sales and desperately shifting models of distribution. 4 years ago. Through him, Osei-Kuffour Jr. is asking us to contemplate how memories of our own lived experiences get mixed in with those of artificial experiences we consume daily through media informed in large part by economic anxiety and unconscious white supremacy. That’s so cool. Our conversation covered the response to Cameraperson, how her teaching practice at NYU informs her work, as well as how she thinks the omnipresence of cameras is adjusting our relationship to the concept of memory. Vietnam seemed to be the cataclysm that ended the idea that America was the world’s “control group,” at least for a while. This killer is so pronouncedly amoral he’s amusing. What am I supposed to be doing?
Will Kirsten Dunst ever again approach the pathos she stirred waking up alone on the 50-yard-line? Brittany is also going to the workshop, and Jay picks her up at Kayla’s insistence, at which point Brittany begins to flirt with Jay, who doesn’t seem to mind as much as he should. At the time of release, Dick Johnson is not, in fact, dead.
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