The Lighthouse

The Lighthouse ★★★★★

Should pale death, with treble dread, make the ocean caves our bed, God who hears the surges roll, deign to save the suppliant soul. To four weeks.

I may not be able to express this enough, but I want to dedicate the last Saturday of 2019 by finally seeing one of my most highly anticipated 2019 films- and boy, my respect right now is as mad as the powerful and monstrous waves crashing, and as towering as the title itself.
Every scene from this spellbinding, terrific film is something that I could honestly put inside a frame and hang on my walls forever, but then I realized, my walls don't deserve such hunting yet fascinating shots haha.
The tranquility, yet the feeling of chaos and a slight trigger of claustrophobia; The Lighthouse is a surreal, nightmarish, magnificent, unsettling, and enthralling film and work of art by Robert Eggers, whose 'The Witch' should I be exploring asap.
And with the stellar and awestricken performances by Willem Dafoe, as Thomas, whose monologues dread the living crap out of me, and of course Robert Pattinson who has masterfully delivered and conveyed Winslow's emotions.
If only you had seen the constant shifting of my facial reactions whilst watching, you could almost tell that my signs of ageing are already accelerating hahaha.

Thomas Wake: You’re fond of me lobster, aint’ ye?
TW: I seen it. You’re fond of me lobster! Say it! Say it. Say it!
Ephraim Winslow: You’re drunker than a Virginy fence.
TW: I seen it. You’re fond of me lobster! Say it! Say it. Say it!
EW: I don’t have to say nothing.
TW: Damn ye! Let Neptune strike ye dead, Winslow! Hark! Hark, Triton. Hark! Bellow, bid our father, the sea king, rise from the depths, full foul in his fury, black waves teeming with salt-foam, to smother this young mouth with pungent slime, to choke ye, engorging your organs till ye turn blue and bloated with bilge, and brine, and can scream no more. Only when, he, crowned in cockle shells, with slithering tentacled tail, and steaming beard, takes up his fell, be-finnèd arm, his coral-tined trident screeches banshee-like in the tempest, and plunges right through your gullet, bursting ye, a bulging bladder no more, but a blasted bloody film now, a nothing for the Harpies, and the souls of dead sailors to peck and claw and feed upon, only to be lapped up and swallowed by the infinite waters of the dread emperor himself. Forgotten to any man, to any time, forgotten to any god, or devil, forgotten even to the sea, for any stuff, or part of Winslow, even any scantling of your soul, is Winslow no more, but is now itself the sea.
TW: I seen it. You’re fond of me lobster! Say it! Say it. Say it!
EW: Alright. Have it your way. I like your cooking.  😂 👏 

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