Oh man, this is way better than I was expecting. Like I thought it’s be some second tier gothic period thriller from a lesser known Daphne du Maurier title but heck, this one actually got some go to it.
It’s a light film, gentle and composed in a way that leads it to fly through its running time. Don’t mind it though, 66 minutes is the right length for this thing, the quiet confidence it expresses, its insistence in finding the meaning in the small tender moments in these lives is magical, all that would be gone in a longer piece.
Funny how a one week break turns into two when you have near zero discipline and self control. It’s good to be back, turns out the one thing that makes me more frustrated than writing is not writing. Here’s the last week’s lot. I’ve been telling a lot of people to watch Michaël Dudok de Wit’s… Continue reading The Weekly Roundup: 11/06/17
It’s a bad dad tale. I guess the real tragedy is that he’s not even close to being the worst dad we’ve seen on the screen and even then he don’t get off too easy. At the same time, speaking as someone with they own daddy issues, he gets more than he deserves.
Okay, sure, Dead Man’s Chest is a incoherently structured trashpile and At World’s End is an overlong, overstuffed mess and with On Stranger Tides they realised far too late that Depp’s Jack Sparrow can’t carry a film on his own. But despite all that, despite all the self-indulgence and self-importance threatening to overwhelm it, there’s a core to these films which I can’t escape.
here’s two dick jokes in Baywatch. Well, I mean there’s more than two dick jokes in Baywatch, come on, but there are two major setpiece dick jokes. That’s the level we’re working on here.
There probably exists a time in the future when there’ll be a critical reappraisal of Wonder Woman. People will be asking, ‘Was that it? People got so excited over that?’ There’ll probably be some sort of vindication for all the shitty complainy men who so frequently whine over this sort of thing. We’ll forget that there’s power to be had in coming first.
Michaël Dudok de Wit’s The Red Turtle is just sickeningly beautiful. Seriously. It’s like every frame is draped with so much perfection that it becomes impossible to glimpse the working parts underneath. It’s so striking, so mercurial that you really can’t deny the power of the thing.
Damn, why is it that all the Nordic movies are the most determinedly stylish? If it ain’t Juho Kuosmanen buying up Europe’s entire stock of 16mm b/w film for The Happiest Day in the Life of Olli Mäki or Roy Andersson playing with the nature and texture of digital filmmaking in his Living Trilogy then you got Aki Kaurismäki who still lights his films like he’s playing outta the 1960s.