2025

2025

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1964

1985

2000

1988

2000

2025

2025

1975

1975

thoughts pending lol

2019

thoughts pending lol

1971

2024

1992

1996

2024

2023

2024

1990

For a film produced in 1990, Misery makes an eerily prescient viewing through how acutely fandom’s more fanatical, salivating strains are scrutinized. Antagonist Annie cuts a remarkably threatening figure, serving as a stand-in for the debauched depths that those single-mindedly pursuing creators are willing to venture down to. Mildly relieved that she does not have access to a Twitter account, but with so many Annies firing off all matter of heinous death threats to creators what’s the difference, really?

1975

While I didn’t find myself caring for One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, I can acknowledge its contribution to the cinematic canon as a profoundly influential piece. During the ‘70s, a dearth of constructive and humanizing portrayals of those grappling with the often-detrimental throes of mental health concerns persisted.

While the film is undeniably dated with a level of misogyny that is quite frankly, disconcerting (which of course persists among the fandom: simply glance over a TOP TEN BIGGEST BADDIES IN MOVIES MUST CLICK YOU’LL NEVER GUESS WHO’S AT NUMBER ONE list to witness the vitriol directed towards Cuckoo’s nurse, a character that while callous is in turn a product of a challenging system). In many regards Cuckoo does at least attempt to strive to imbue the facility’s inhabitants with a level of dignity absent from other works at the time, which is laudable.

1972

That this is the only British film of the ‘70s to be directed by a woman is noteworthy in and of itself, however it is worth adding that The Other Side of the Underneath is a profoundly radicalist and destructive work engaging with psychiatry, female sexuality, and mental illness. Devoid of a conventional narrative structure, Underneath’s two-hour runtime consists of surrealist and oftentimes unsettling vignettes framed from the perspective of its cast, oscillating wildly between tranquillity and unrestrained cacophony to the point of overwhelming.

These instances transcend the confines of the viewer’s comprehension, ambiguous as they are yet nevertheless striking for the ones experiencing these distortions of reality.

A cello’s recurrent presence serves to exacerbate this disquietude, effectively contributing to the unravelling. The talented Sally Minford, who leads us all further into the depths of hell with her orchestrating also appears in the film, playing her own cello. Cast members were originally part of the director’s theatre troupe, and on LSD throughout the film’s duration (the director, Jane Arden, refrained though chose wine instead). It all culminates in such a uniquely disturbing yet important piece of cinema.

2006

Unbridled resentment and rancour thrumming through its veins, Possession delves into the gloom and hatred splintering through the end of a relationship. Shards firmly lodged into a nearby wall, it purposefully casts the Berlin wall as a principal character and a third party in this macrocosmic relationship evocative of the era in which Possession was set.

Unsettling in its take on the fear that arises in tandem with division and being unable to move on, it’s a cinematic triumph that immediately transformed into a new favourite. Modern scream queens wish they had what Adjani had, that scene in the train station oh my GOSH.

2006

So I’m not a Nolan fan, as has been revealed through a dismal, meandering Insterstellar viewing. But how will the supposedly thrilling, twist-laden tour de force that is The Prestige fare…? The real twist ended up being that the film would have been over in less than ten minutes had Jackman and Bale’s characters simply kissed. They ought to have disregarded the suspiciously lengthy trail of dead wives in their wake, and married each other.

That said,

Narrator: watch closely

Me: THE TWISTS ARE TWISTING OH MY GOOD HEAVENS

2022

Focusing on a Korean-born, French-adopted woman daubing fingerprints over the long-settled dust of her past, Return to Seoul is a uniquely diasporic departure from films with adoption at their swirling nexus. Its central character navigates cultural chasms which veer on cavernous, relying on awkward translations to convey oftentimes heated sentiments, while grappling with identity, and her place in the world.

Return to Seoul invites her to evaluate the multifaceted amalgamation of all these places, lives lived to construct a portrait of a complicated women straddling multiple boundaries.

2006

Technological upheaval that arises in tandem with the new millennium drawing ever-closer plays out in spectacular fashion across our screen, with The Tape sufficiently unsettling in the ’98 Ring adaptation. Sinister gender dynamics eddying around the franchise’s margins are softened considerably, through a woman assuming the role of narrator.

This represents a critical shift, as the perspective of the original novel’s narrator is mired in jarring misogyny and antiquated gendered norms. In turn, the monstrous feminine is dragged down to the same dark depths Sadako finds herself callously thrown into. With the film, the subversive tenets of Sadako’s emergence in contemporaneity as a destructive force dismantling deserves.

also hello what a banger of a closing song

2006

Mika’s visual mastery when it comes to colours and framing are nothing short of impeccable, all lurid crimsons and opulent textures heightened by Shiina Ringo’s delectable jazz punk fusion album Heisei Fuzoku.

A lavish feast for the senses, Sakuran proves to be a remarkable production with a distinctly rebellious streak. Enhanced by Tsuchiya’s gravel-toned magnetism, she assumes the role of an unruly Edo courtesan’s rise through the upper echelons of society. Despite a regrettable sense of detachment from her character, in all its bombastic spectacle I nevertheless emerged from Sakuran thoroughly mesmerized.

2023

Soon after release Saltburn earned a reputation for being inauthentic slop in its clumsy approach to class dynamics and upward social mobility; a hedonistic, bacchanalian, semen-encrusted spectacle – albeit with admirable visual artistry. While I wouldn’t necessarily argue with such criticisms (the last twenty or so minutes should have been gouged out entirely), Keoghan’s portrayal of a man seeking to fill an all-consuming void through progressively depraved, meticulously designed acts left me eager to witness the fallout of his toxicity despite mostly unconvincing writing.

The parasitic obsession burning through his character’s veins, the longing towards all of what Elordi’s character embodied proved entertaining despite the character possessing all the charm of a piece of soggy old cardboard. While there technically isn’t really much to praise about Saltburn I nevertheless emerged thoroughly amused at the ostentatious debauchery. Spectacle through and through, that’s cinema, baby!

1989

An operatic, surrealist positing of psychosexual corruption filtered through this Freudian nightmare of a lens, Santa Sangre is all garish reds, wandering hands, desecrated saints, and re-contextualizations of the feminine grotesque. My first Jodorowsky film proved to be a dreamlike, mind-blowing venture I certainly will not be soon to forget.

Amusingly, I first heard Santa Sangre invoked via Lovecraftian-themed idol group NECRONOMIDOL (yes they are as totally cool as they sound).

1995

Languishing within the sordid nadirs of bad cinema™, countless Razzies under its extravagant glitter-encrusted belt – expectations towards the notorious Showgirls are inevitable. And while there is an undeniably sensationalist element to the glitz-laden events that ensue (after the umpteenth full-frontal gyrating scene, what makes you just about fall out of your chair is MacLachlan’s butt), Showgirls oozes charm from every shimmering pore. Through the camp trimmings a sombre undertone persists as it explores power dynamics, relationships mired in cold capitalistic exchanges, and the women mercilessly crushed beneath Hollywood’s weighty heel.

The film wreaked havoc on the remnants of Berkley’s fledgling career, who entered the project fresh-faced and starry-eyed from her role as all-American sitcom darling in Saved by the Bell. Much like Showgirls delving into the realities of those exploited under the all-too glaring neon lights, those who find themselves lured in by the gloss and gleam of something bigger and better, Berkley’s career became a cog in this well-oiled machine meticulously designed to exploit women.

It is depressingly telling that following the film’s release, she was ceremoniously dropped from her agency yet director Verhoeven went on, unscathed – receiving continued applause. Showgirls continues to be spoken of in jeered tones, but it’s more achingly sincere than most films afficionados champion and deserves recognition.

2010

Opting to indulge in a viewing of The Social Network may have been spurred on by topical gossip draped in shades of red, white, and blue (wink wink, nudge nudge, you know the drill etc.). Eisenberg embodies a suitably loathsome Zuckerburg, and despite upping the ante to portray the rise of a monolithic force that irrevocably altered the dynamics of online interaction, it remains a disheartening reality that the individual himself somehow manages to be an even more unsavoury figure.

Fincher’s style of direction suits the frantic rise of Facebook, but The Social Network makes for such an unlikeable watch no matter how curious book commentary channels make you.

2022

A mesmerizing piece exploring accountability politics, ego, and exploitation, Tár focuses on a complex woman offering the lingering vestiges of her humanity to a sacrificial alter which men of old govern. Finding herself ensnared within their same toxic proclivities, Tár spreads venom amidst the lives of those she encounters. In a lesser work, there would be redemptive forces at play – but for Tár, what awaits is an empty theatre, warmth fading in the wake of icy self-induced solitude.

As if she were a serpent shedding its skin, Tár will eternally pursue the laborious, psyche-eroding quest for self-reinvention, failing to address the swirling maelstrom of venom within. She will continue to disregard the notion that she is at fault, and repeat the same process time and time again – which is so often the case with abusers as they eschew culpability with practiced avoidance. Driven by a desire to wield power and exploit it indiscriminately, they do so simply because they possess the ability to. It’s a damning, and keenly current film as a result.

2016

Decadent zombie spectacles mired in a surfeit of blood ’n guts just aren’t for me, inevitably lapsing into b-movie extravagance through gratuitous explosions, all matter of viscera painting windows and street corners resulting in my eyes glazing over a blood-splattered screen. Despite being fixed within the gory confines of a similar framework, Train to Busan nevertheless makes for a curiously entertaining watch.

Its success can be attributed to the constrained nature of the train setting, introducing a palpable tension and uncertainty to the level of devastation which the lethal virus may have laid waste to beyond its compartmentalized confines. What also helped my opinion was likable characters.

1998

Eyeing the sybaritic expanse of reality television and social media wherein sacrifices of privacy are eagerly proffered at the dubious altar of celebrity and wealth, one cannot help but wince at how prophetic a ’98 film ended up being. So prescient is The Truman Show that its existence casts a shadow upon the collective obsession with personal stories and lives lived seeping into every TikTok reel casually scrolled through, each Instagram account followed.

Once reminiscent of the fervour directed towards Princess Diana with a salivating throng of paparazzigiving chase, the film now mirrors how we engage with these lives meticulously fashioned to us. One would anticipate The Truman Show being a bittersweet affair considering the current state of, well, everything, yet Carrey’s acting lends otherwise sombre material an unusually comedic tone. Truman is played with all his heart, lapsing into surrealist motions to genuinely heart-wrenching moments of introspection. Had another actor played such a complex role, they would not have managed to embody The Truman Show’s dichotomous elements in such a way.

2023

Mired in contemporaneity with allusions to the true crime industrial complex unavoidable, May December places the culpability of those participating in the seedier annals of its fandom through sensationalizing real stories, and pathologizing victims under a lens to be dissected. Loosely inspired by the Letourneau case, it portrays media manipulating harrowing incidents that trauma-besieged individuals experience to nefarious, exploitative ends.

Melton’s character endures a particularly egregious form of arrested development, having been subjected to abuse during his youth and later living with his perpetrator. Witnessing his eventual realization regarding the power imbalance feels almost voyeuristic, calling to mind those seeking to profit off his devastation and psychological ruination. They care little as the material further serves as gaudy, lurid fuel to entertain – which in a way, extends to the very audience watching this film.

2023

Friends permeates our culture like an unavoidable stench, carefully marketed nostalgia and mass produced merchandise emblazoned with choice quotes foisted upon us with a feverish insistency. So the fact that an end of world scenario loops back to the show, closing with that blasted theme song even, feels depressingly on the nose in an era where escapism is preferred over those tangible human connections.

To the daughter, a terribly dated sitcom showcasing a cast of characters as vapid as they are repellent feels more real than the people surrounding her during a time of crisis ever could. And this, incidentally, is why I wished to leave this film behind.

2014

With the exception of the spectacular reincarnation melodrama that is Please Save My Earth, I’m not too pushed on media which explore the outermost reaches of galaxies far, far away. I’ve mulled over the specifics of why that star-dotted celestial canvas evokes distaste, particularly given that I had such a profoundly adverse reaction to Final Fantasy XIV’s Endwalker expansion.

Exploring remnants of civilizations strewn amidst the poignant upheaval of Ultima Thule alongside frolicking in the loporrit cyber-warren, great. But the eleventh-hour indulgence that arises with transcending earthly influences to something Bigger and Better, escalating by the minute and I’m grabbing the next rocket back. See you, space cowboys.

It is reminiscent of why final form drudgery seldom appeals (y’know, I HAVE YET TO REACH MY FINAL FORM WOooOOOOoooAAhhhHH), the absurdist shifts (this also bothered me in Final Fantasy VIII despite being a game defined by such swerves). Consequently, I became intrigued by the prospect of Interstellar due to its reputation of meticulously researched physics and emphasis on scientific hypotheticals. And yet, and yet, and yet. I found my eyes glaze over, realizing that I don’t like this film or Nolan’s style of directing.

2006

Despite counting Twin Peaks among my favourite TV series, after stumbling through Lynch’s cinematic oeuvre I reached a most grim realization, a grievous affront to those taken with surrealism – I do not care for his films. Blue Velvet showcases one of the medium’s quintessential opening sequences through the pestilence festering beneath suburbia’s evergreen façade, Eraserhead displays characteristic Lynchisms such as the radiator lady illustrating anxieties linked to fatherhood – and yet I disliked both.

Mullholand Drive I was certain would be The Lynch Film For Me™, and while the thematic resonance proved appealing in its exploration of women resisting Hollywood’s intrinsically patriarchal structure, and the sting that comes with witnessing those dearly cherished succumbing to its venom-drenched talons, I didn’t care for that either.

The first hour of his most impenetrable work, Inland Empire, lulls the apprehensive viewer into an illusionary stupor, delving into the often-challenging strata of metafictional abstraction with camp Lynchian relishes. Here I began to entertain the notion of Inland Empire being The Lynch Film For Me™, as it was an absolute riot. Upon reaching the second hour however, it slides swiftly into an inexplicable blurring of roles which ought to have struck a chord with me, yet I found myself increasingly perplexed, ensnared within myriad surrealist vignettes that I struggled to break free from.

This worsened considerably as I staggered towards the third hour. Inland Empire is a challenging piece that tests even Lynch’s most devoted, but it may warrant a return some years down the line after I have a greater appreciation for this particular mode of abstraction.

2020

Make no mistake – despite the title alluding to blissful time shared amidst the holidays’ inviting glow, Happiest Season makes for a mistletoe-wilting, bauble-splintering, tree-toppling experience. Stewart’s character grapples with her closeted partner’s internalized homophobia for the film’s agonizing duration, with the would-be love of her life wavering between preserving a virtuous façade to appease an upper-class family, and potentially disrupting this meticulously established harmony through coming out.

The tension on Davis’ behalf is non-existent, her and Stewart’s relationship a cavernous void which a lack of chemistry cannot possibly hope to fill. Stewart should have just went off with Plaza and saved us all a headache.

2009

A well-thumbed Dahl anthology, all peeling cover and yellowed pages, earned pride of place on your younger webmistress’ bookshelf. One of its whimsical tales leaving me eternally awed through the resourcefulness of the downtrodden securing their own means of survival was Fantastic Mr. Fox. Years later, nothing could have prepared me for such a whimsical, heartfelt take on the material.

With Anderson’s characteristic brand of kitsch, we are presented with a figure straddling the boundary between past and future; their own spring and winter, only to eventually reconcile the two. The sequence where Fox comes quite literally face to face with his fears – the realization that winter, or the acceptance of Fox’s own transitional phase of middle age, is gently being ushered in – was spectacular.

2022

A divisive piece, Enys Men offers a haunting glimpse into the innermost recesses of an individual ensnared within the barbs of seclusion as wounds of the past fester with cruel insistence. They prod at her, demanding a response as a tapestry of sentiments which disassemble conventional narrative structures is weaved. There’s more to how Enys Men feels, looks as we explore this psyche-eroding tedium of a woman tasked with observing a ‘70s Cornish landscape that feels unwelcoming in its stagnancy. As pressures mount it shifts and undulates, mirroring trauma’s tumultuous nature.

Trauma is messy, oscillating between disconcerting, all-consuming jolts and a serenity that veers on disquieting – back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. The film masterfully captures this complexity, the repetition, a process that feels at once deafening and silent.

We are left with an evocative portrayal of the uncertainty in which trauma and grief linger, capturing such turbulent emotions in their purest form as Enys Men refuses to adhere to a linear mode of representation. There is no story, hardly any words. All that we have are these ghostly impressions, faint suggestions of a lives lived, a copy of A Blueprint For Survival.

2022

A Safdie-esque glimpse into the desperation of the times in which we live, and the life-altering extremities one can be pushed towards if the pendulum so happens to swing mercilessly their way. Living within this late-stage capitalist society, those exploited therein claw up from the gutter hoping for better days. Plaza’s characteristic deadpan presentation is perfect for the crime genre and makes for a deeply sympathetic character.

1988

Fresh off a Cruel Intentions viewing, I was intrigued by how a considerably direct adaptation of de Laclos’ epistolary novel would fare through depicting the sprawling hedonism of pre-French Revolution debauchery. In Dangerous Liaisons Close is magnetic as the hedonistic and deeply embittered Merteuil (where’s her Oscar oomfies), Malkovich is suitably repugnant as Valmont.

While I didn’t enjoy it as much as the utterly decadent ‘90s take on the novel (partially because I may have found myself heatedly nodding along with that “Eat me, Sebastian!” speech Gellar’s character made), I do plan on reading what started this most dangerous cinematic universe. Eventually.

2016

Cyberspace in all its prismatic digitization, noughts and ones, provides a unique environment for authentic matters of communication to emerge alongside life-long interpersonal bonds. Consequently, I’ve grown weary of works which seek to vilify the infinitely positive change which the digital realm can bring. Through A Bride for Rip Van Winkle, a relatively nuanced approach to such matters has been conveyed, shot with palpable tenderness.

Within the realm of social media the prospect of self-ruination eternally looms, yet redemptive forces catalysed by those ephemeral yet nevertheless profound connections transcend the siren call of devastation. Though beautifully shot, I can’t recall Hana and Alice or the much-celebrated Lily Chou-Chou making a particularly deep impression on me. Achingly entrenched in contemporaneity however, Rip Van Winkle acutely understands the internet to such a degree that I am relieved I didn’t completely write off Iwai’s oeuvre.

2021

Anyone who had the misfortune of toiling away within the grimy annals of the hospitality industry will find Boiling Point nail-bitingly relatable; mopping sweat-drenched brow, glancing down at apron dotted with indistinguishable food stains, keenly aware of how expendable you are while a manager roars over the cacophonous din.

Tension taut as a violin string, rising to a frenzied crescendo as the night wears on Boiling Point is a one-shot film that feels more like a fly on the wall documentary for its stressed staff. Although it has been a very long time since I worked in such an environment, Barantini captures the challenging nature with an ease that almost feels cruel, heart furiously drumming against my ribcage while watching.

2023

Barbie affords a sobering glimpse into socialisation during adolescence and the deleterious ramifications on the psyche as we seek to carve out our own space within a world which pushes us out through virtue of existing. Despite society seeking to extinguish the flame of one’s wide-eyed joie de vivre, as adulthood looms we nevertheless need to find ourselves navigating through these labyrinthine societies. Spurn poison deftly poured in ears, cast off thorns wrapped around trembling limbs, and emerge out the other side battle-hardened and ready for revolution.

The disheartening reality faced is by no means a perfect solution, but through the plastic sheen of Barbie’s screenplay I came to respect how it sought to transform complex feelings into a glitzy package palatable for a wider audience. As the credits rolled I sat with an ache in my heart, reminded of how we must endure, and persist, within environments which attempt to define and confine us.

While I naturally did take issue with Barbie’s rigid adherence to white, able-bodied feminism through systematic exclusion of those who don’t exactly fit the representative blonde-haired, blue-eyed model (despite production’s feeble attempts at making one believe otherwise), its attempts at highlighting the complications that arise through existing should not be disregarded. Any piece of media which plants a seed of potential in one’s mind, that may be nurtured over time and flourish is commendable. The discussion surrounding Barbie has grown tiresome, but I nevertheless found the film quite meaningful in its own way.

2023

Immaculately shot amidst the inscrutabilities of radioactive teal skies, Asteroid City is a beautifully constructed tribute to the enigmas of existence, and searching for meaning within a void where loss and grief are as infinite as space itself. Applying metanarrative scaffolding to further explore gulf between the artifice of fiction and sincerity of those forging it, we are afforded a glimpse into the life of a playwright alongside a troupe of actors performing in a production of one such play. Boundaries fade within a nebulous haze as they grapple with roles lacking in schmaltzy catharsis, asking “Am I doing this right?”, words laced with apprehension.

The characters, and narrative don’t really make sense, but what in this life does? We need to find our own meaning, and reach these understandings of our own accord through the myriad roles that we ourselves play; reconciling glib affectations with authenticity. A remarkable return to form for Anderson, with Asteroid City taking on a rewarding dimension for those enamoured with his matryoshka-like presentation and the kitsch showmanship of those nestled within. Personally his most affecting since The Grand Budapest Hotel.

2024

pope yaoi so real

2001

thoughts pending lol

1994

The first fiftyish minutes of Angel Dust drift along in a mesmerizing, hallucinatory rhythm. I was entranced. Visuals awash in acidic, sickly greens drown out rush-hour Tokyo Monday are punctuated by rapid, disorienting cuts echoing Ishii’s punk sensibilities.

Alienation pulses relentlessly through dread-inducing train rides, cultists with hollow smiles beckon those adrift, and isolation leaves those lost within its swirling nexus vulnerable to the lurking terrors of the mind. The surreal atmosphere lending to uncertainty swathing the narrative alongside the detached, pop culture-infused dialogue had me certain Angel Dust might just become a new favourite.

Then the last hour happened.

Symptomatic of the festering loneliness within sprawling metropolises, in all his sneering technobabble the antagonist cuts a menacing figure luring the disenchanted toward the abyss in honeyed, coaxing tones. Our protagonist is no exception: initially presented as a determined FBI agent resolute in her quest to crack the case, she is gradually stripped of her autonomy, reduced to a fragile, tear-streaked figure on the floor. She clings, desperately, to his manipulative influence resulting in a deeply unsettling turn of events. He is will destroy her. It does not care.

Delving into the sinister power dynamics of abusive relationships, Angel Dust culminates in a terrifying final shot suggesting that the protagonist will never truly be free. Not from the antagonist’s grip, or the growing alienation of those within the concrete jungle which he embodies. Though a unique approach, it nevertheless leaves an overwhelmingly bitter taste after watching and I found myself… sort of hating it?

2024

As was the case for countless film-goers this past summer, the trailer for Shyamalan’s latest drew my attention. Leaving viewers poised for a delightfully schlocky experience, Trap captured our collective curiosity through Hartnett’s strained, uneasy grin showing a little too much teeth paired with the outrageousness of That bathroom sequence. Eliciting a wry smile and knowing nudge to my partner, I knew we had to see it.

Sequestered within quasi-surrealist environmental staging presenting as more film set than concert venue, characters engage in stilted exchanges; their words dripping with artifice as Harnett’s character is ensnared in a web of convenience. His prowling sparsely populated corridors and restricted areas though awkwardly fabricated contrivances are curiously systematic, reminiscent of a stealth game focusing on triggering flags. It’s ridiculous, which is what makes this first part work so well.

Anticipating am environmental framing not unlike Rope through the film’s staging being confined to the venue-esque location, once Hartnett & co. exit stage right its structural integrity collapses. The popcorn-munching outlandishness vanishing within the notes of Raven’s closing number, events which ensue unfurl in a rather tepid manner.

Hazy allusions to the crushing pressure of existing within the liminal space of parenthood and personal identity drift through the cat-and-mouse chase, but it never quite coalesces into something salient. And perhaps worst of all, it becomes boring. Aimless. The madcap theories I eagerly posed died alongside any interest I had in Trap, with the real twist being that existing as a parent is hell, actually (probably).

2003

As a dog returns to its own vomit, as do I when it comes to Von Trier’s unabashedly sadistic and meanspirited oeuvre. Though I’d consider myself fairly resilient, The House That Jack Built proved a bridge too far through its relentlessly visceral and skewed distortion of women as objects to be defiled (“they’re easier to work with” utters the titular Jack at one point, calling to mind haunting anecdotes from women who’ve worked with Von Trier). Viewing Jack proved to be such a disorientating experience which lead to my being engulfed by eddying swirls of nausea, discomfort settling.

And yet, I found myself curiously drawn to Dogville with its minimalist set design reminiscent of black box theatre portraying voyeurism lurking within the shade of small-town scrutiny. The absence of walls ensures that every secret is fully exposed for all to see, undermining the pristine lawns and delicately structured picket fences of suburban white America.

All who dwell within these societies are complicit in atrocities which occur within their scope, resulting in conspiracies of silence settling behind every genial “good morning”; every carefully fashioned veneer of civility irreversibly tarnished. Initially I found Dogville striking in its bleak portrayal of villagers ostracizing an immigrant until they are parsed as capable of providing economic utility, however Von Trier’s flagrant lack of humanity in portraying injustice warps the nature of these characters walking across the minimalist stage. His films thrive off pessimism, with the viewer squirming in their seat bearing witness to lines such as “Everybody in this town has had your body but me” as it takes a sharp, depressingly expected, turn into sexual exploitation.

No doubt Von Trier devotees will applaud his supposedly dragging back the blood-soaked curtain on how things truly are through America serving as a microcosm of society at large, depicting how every individual harbours the capacity to commit atrocities. Yet it’s all portrayed in a manner that is nothing short of excruciating, leaving me frustrated that I ever thought it would be a good idea to give Von Trier another chance.

2024

While furtively plucking pieces of warm, buttery popcorn out of a bucket I awkwardly balanced ascending cinema stairs to watch Longlegs, my partner shared a piece of information which would alter how I came to see events unfolding across the big screen – the director is Anthony Perkins’ son. Though ultimately I found this summer’s satanic panic darling an unremarkable affair with a particularly rubbish third act (don’t even get me started on the spOoooOoooky effects like the eyes peaking through the veil), it is worth reflecting how those enmeshed within a generational web constructed to preserve secrets can be affected.

Disentangling Osgood Perkins’ own lived experience proves difficult considering the secrets woven into familial fabric; mother striving to conceal the truth regarding father’s sexuality, with Osgood and his brother left to construct their own truth. Parents can craft sombre fantasies to shield children from the oftentimes harsh and cruel realities of life, and with Longlegs Perkins sought to explore this complicated dynamic through depicting how “a mother can lie, and she can lie out of love”. Such an approach does elicit a degree of sympathy, yet the film itself is unfortunately a tedious affair.

I’m always here for a gloriously hamtastic Cage performance, and his satanic glam rock extravagance disrupting Christian families through Love Island-esque injectables, scowled at in highway stores did prove entertaining and earned a few audience chuckles. Beyond Cage the cast members are pale imitations of figures we’ve seen before, the supernatural elements tiresome.

2023

Labyrinthine in scope, the sprawling corridors of the visa industrial complex lead to doors slammed and rejections forwarded without any discernible sign-off; the tantalizing promise of the American dream dangled before starry-eyed idealists, a future buried beneath a mountain of paperwork. Resolute, bureaucratic walls hold firm for those desperately wishing to make something of themselves, particularly when they lack the means to safely navigate these systems.

Torres’ directorial debut with Problemista addresses the formidable challenges inherent in traversing through, seemingly erected to ensure would-be hopefuls remain eternally lost without a single beacon of hope to guide their way. Beneath the film’s glitzy pizzaz and wry whimsicality with Craigslist personified lounging in an Aladdin’s cave of Ikea bookshelves-cum-fetish gigs and cathartic exclaimations of “no one knows shit about FileMaker Pro” lies a sharp critique of the demoralizing and seemingly hopeless nature of serving as a cog within this machine.

And yet, you persist because maybe at the end of this there is that light – a prize in the form of a softly uttered “you did it”, a warm hug and anxieties shared. Though Swinton’s dishevelled character appeared to embody this for Torres’ character she occupies a similar oppressive space as the bureaucratic systems seeking to crush his dreams, his very existence even through the empathetic forces at play. Her spiteful “go make Barbies for Toys ‘R’ Us” undermines his raison d'être, words hanging in the air long after they’ve been spat out.

Her abusive treatment of service workers, coupled with the prospect of a visa sponsorship perpetually dangled over his head, suggests that thriving within this system requires complicity in the exploitation of others; participating in the very systems that perpetuate inequity in order for Torres and Swinton’s characters to thrive. While Problemista seemingly concludes on a happy note in a pseudo-futuristic dreamscape, the level of catharsis achieved by Swinton’s character feels unearned. Certainly sympathetic to a degree, she is a complicated woman who nevertheless makes people she perceives as lesser feel worthless.

2016

Having never seen a kaiju feature, to say that I harboured a degree of trepidation facing the indomitable, multi-decade spanning legacy towering over me would be putting it lightly. And yet Shin Godzilla makes for a remarkably harrowing experience, with the infamous creature’s latest information less Saturday morning cartoon bravado and more eldritch entity writhing in agony; birthed from the nuclear wreckage of humanity’s folly.

It brings suffering and devastation as a harbinger of doom rapidly transcending traditionalist evolutionary principles, cutting a haunting figure through buckling under the agonizing weight of its own metamorphosis. Godzilla is all wide-eyed panic with blood oozing from skin, rendering Shin’s take something altogether more perplexing and beyond the scope of mortal comprehension. We can’t even begin to hope to understand this being that could very well transcend humanity itself.

The government’s ineptitude when faced with such all-consuming ??? is equally disturbing, departments shuffling off to meeting rooms that grow spacious and spacious still while shifting responsibility in the desperate hope that someone else will tackle the kaiju in the room. As political figureheads nervously get tangled up in red tape with dizzying, quickfire shots to further convey the unease, lives are lost. As relief-inducing as the eventual joining together of a ragtag band of misfits and their defeat of Godzilla is, the last sequence strikes terror down to one’s bones imagining what humanity had narrowly avoided.

2024

As the final rusty nail in the coffin to Ti West’s campy slasher trilogy, Maxxxine faced an inevitable challenge in fulfilling what ought to have been a blood-smeared destiny bequeathed to an altar built upon grindhouse and technicolour extravagance. Since release the film has deservedly been subject to criticism for not living up to its star-studded potential; pundits scratching their head over a tepid closing act result all exiting the stage to no applause.

While narratively Maxxxine certainly is lacking, particularly when compared to those ambitious predecessors, I find myself basking in the lurid neon glow and its highlighting of how women are positioned as commodities both within horror as a genre and the erotic film industry of the 1970s, alongside the ruthless pursuit of stardom where ambition is pursued at the expense of one’s humanity – further underscored by the Bette Davis allusions.

Subverting the traditionalist stylings of all that a final girl entails, Maxine herself assumes a rather cold and distant role spurning those befalling similar brutal fates; slapping away outstretched, trembling hands. It prompts reflection on the trauma she endured (while reminding me that I need to read Hendrix’s The Final Girl Support Group), with Goth capturing the emotionally detached contours of such a transformation and the rage simmering underneath. It is a shame, then, that with such a unique set-up Maxine’s character reminds largely detached from the story itself, spending large swathes of the film staring suspiciously at cast members and rushing aimlessly from set to set.

The good will towards the trilogy all but dissipates amidst what quickly transforms into a psychosexual giallo pastiche, understanding but not necessarily committing to what makes such features memorable. An uneven final act and poorly constructed antagonist in which Maxine is reduced to a damsel feels all the more egregious, although I think the ending itself is fitting with Maxine stopping at nothing to achieve the life that she deserves. Maxxxine is a fine film, but it really should have been more. And that stings.

2024

Immaculate harboured all the potential to exist as a laudable entry in the blood-smeared gallery of nunsploitation atrocities, while simultaneously shattering the precariously constructed stained glass window of the Catholic church and how it treats those reflected in its distorted prism. The sexual exploitation and reproductive abuse inherent to the secular conspiracy of silence has been extensively documented, with the past’s shadow hanging long and heavy over the institution’s existence.

Tackling such harrowing subject matter with grace and poise is a formidable task, and Immaculate regrettably falters through its gleeful insistence at presenting the irritated viewer with all matter of tired jump scares. Crows hurtle ferociously onto window panes, jealous women hurl themselves from building windows, masked cultists lop off tongues, and pictures are askew with sudden movements. It’s all so terribly dull and insulting, really.

It truly is a shame, particularly given that Sweeney occupies a centrifugal force within an unsettling misogynistic culture war fuelled by conservative publications. Playing the lead in Immaculate in which her character wages war against a damaging, patriarchal society seeking to rid women of bodily autonomy initially suggests the potential for a reclamation of her own narrative.

The manner in which men in the opening sequence leer at her physique and lament that she’s going off to be a nun echoes how Sweeney is spoken of in the media, however any gleam of potential in addressing this and linking it to the broader suffering of women within these institutes is washed away, rendering Immaculate perhaps one of the more disappointing films I have seen as of late. It had the chance to do something thoughtful, and meaningful – but it’s a bunch of tired old rubbish that deserves to be tossed out alongside all the crow props.

As an aside, Polyester does a nice deep dive into the Sweeney situation touched on above if you happen to be interested.

2025 addendum: lol. lol.

1974

In a medium oft characterized by stiff upper lip machismo where emotional vulnerability is suppressed and conversations are drowned out by the sound of pummelling fists, in the wake of Vietnam war came a shift in cinematic focus towards how men experience psychological turmoil. With PTSD as a term gaining prominence came a surge of films exploring not only the ramifications of the barrage of gore and shrapnel veterans were exposed to, but in turn exploring how trauma can affect men.

Serving as my first experience with Coppola’s oeuvre, The Conversation is laudable through its delving into the complexities of trauma and how this informs the skittish, closed-off behaviour of Hackman’s character. Offering a profound examination of mental turmoil, paranoid delusions of eyes perpetually swivelling towards him and all-knowing tones beneath the floorboards of nondescript apartments plague him at every turn.

A remarkably future-forward and prescient film in how it approaches media surveillance through the notion of being observed, in turn reflecting a politically-charged era where privacy was a growing concern, Hackman’s character grapples with the ethnical quandaries of his voyeuristic position in private surveillance. His mind unravelling as he delves further into a case revolving around a young couple is unnerving to witness, resulting in the viewer questioning whether blood erupting from a toilet or screams from an adjacent room are truly occurring when he’s grappling within the all-consuming throes of a murder which came about due to his involvement.

The tape’s recording repeats throughout the film, sending his mind into further disarray while adding a further voyeuristic quantity through the viewer watching Hackman’s character carefully work through the daily minutiae. Hackman is the best at what he does, it seems, but there’s always another lying in wait with another conversation to be listened to.

2018

Drawing on Boots Riley toiling away within the telemarketing gallows along with his own extensive history of radical, sociopolitical activism, Sorry to Bother You had the potential to be a transformative capitalist critique of society marching forward towards increasingly dystopian reaches. What ought to have reached similar heights as Riley’s disruptive musical career bolstered by the above political leanings, however, comes across as being tonally jarring. It’s a directorial debut weighed down by juvenile humour (Hammer’s triumphant “horse cock!” eruption will no doubt have drawn a few smirks; Stanfield’s character being more or less told ur meat is hueg & sexy xox every time he clocks into his hell job) and uneven narrative flourishes.

Despite these issues, Sorry to Bother You remains a sincere and provocative effort, particularly in how it addresses the discriminatory obstructions in our society which prevent people of colour from participating in upward social mobility, demanding that trauma be commodified and cultural identities be softened in favour of moving within white societies.

There’s a particularly harrowing sequence in Sorry to Bother You, where despite Stanfield’s character being granted passage into the elusive and illustrious inner sanctum his efforts are not acknowledged; the seat at the table yearned for being reduced to crumbs thrown on a soiled floor. He is coerced into rapping, eventually letting out a stream of words that the white, leering audience eagerly screech – it’s what they wanted to begin with, you think.

2023

Anatomy of a Fall proves to be a melancholic courtroom drama which softly pushes gawping onlookers away from considering whether the woman did in fact kill her husband, and invites us to consider how her grief-stricken son reconstructs such harrowing circumstances in a way that makes sense to his own mind in turmoil. As his mother’s dirty laundry is aired out in the courtroom, inviting salivating onlookers to feast upon trauma much in the vein of The Anatomy Lesson of Dr. Nicolaes Tulp, he must contend with whether she is capable of committing murder, or whether his father ended up being behind the titular fall.

Dragged into the duplicitous and unforgiving world of adults, he’s forced to grow up quickly in a way that is tragic to see unfold. And yet, while I respect Anatomy of a Fall - particularly how it takes care to address that people are complex individuals that simply cannot be defined by a single moment in time – it dragged, terribly. Even the surreal reoccurrence of that blasted P.I.M.P arrangement couldn’t keep me invested.

2024

Pulpy erotic thriller by way of Cronenberg in its unrepentant writhing vein physicality, the transgressive sensibilities of Love Lives Bleeding will ensure the film’s place as a soon-to-be pillar of queer movie nights. Kstew brings gormless ah gomen oomfchan energy to the table with an unintentionally hilarious performance, falling for a bisexual bodybuilder ripped straight out of Marvel and the result is electrifying.

Although the relationship’s instability is a reoccurring element given the pair’s respective issues, The Struggle of Being Queer™ is refreshingly absent (Kstew’s character admits that her father doesn’t really care). The grave subject matter is more taken with the all-consuming, cyclical nature of addictions and the substituting of one for another without tackling the source and assessing what drives these behaviours in an adrenaline-fuelled cocktail of sweat and steroids.

Although I was certainly amused by the unconventional nature of Love Lives Bleeding, its third act plunged further into the seedy underbelly of ‘80s Americana and the local crime scene in turn drifting away from the surrealism which captured my attention. Solid beyond that – and besides, it’s not everyday that you see a character growing into a giantess as a metaphor for her emerging self-confidence. Good for her!

2024

For a film concerned with contextualizing the politics of desire, power, and resentment amidst a propulsive sporting backdrop, there simply isn't enough to the oft-spoken of throuple to keep spectators invested in Challengers. Entering Guadagnino’s latest, I was loosely aware that it centred on polygamy but as opposed to the illicit flames of a polycule setting the e-wasteland on fire, we end up with a rather subdued love triangle; bitterness turning the hearts of those involved to ice. Zendaya cuts a remarkable figure in all of her character’s acerbic glory (“What am I, Jesus?”), yet those erstwhile love interests trailing after her fade away into the longing of the tennis court.

Grappling with what could have been, should have been ought to have provided a level of intrigue given all that was at stake with regards to the relational complexities therein, particularly with Guadagnino’s seamlessly equating sport to the sensual. And yet the “two white boys” possessed all the charisma of soggy old bread. Had their underlying tension been further explored I could have come to appreciate Challengers more, but as is I’ll most fondly remember the film for its banger of a soundtrack and Zendaya’s character pulling off an expression that Light Yagami could only dream of when she finally gets the guys to make out.