Netflix continues to absolutely kill it for the second year in a row, but Mank marks a high point for even their recently stellar standards. Not even speaking of the visual feast Fincher usually brings (the man is irresponsibly stylish), his latest functions on so many levels that beg to be unpacked by film history nerds like myself.

Said style can easily overshadow any substance, and while the first half of this can easily make the substance here seem thin…

Helps that i'm already partial towards the record it accompanies (many weren't), but I also seemed to dig this light musical (not really musical) short (not really short) film more than others.

Is it poorly edited? Of course. Does it buckle under and end up feeling like loosely strung-together music videos? Yep. But there's something endearing about the zero-fucks-given attitude it wears on its sleeve as it continues Tickets To My Downfall's two biggest trends: an overbearing pink color pallette…

Funny how in an It's A Wonderful Life style turn of events, everytime I wanna just give up; Charlie Kaufman comes along and blesses me with a new movie.

In his latest assault on the senses, Kaufman adapts (for the first time in his directoral features) a novel in a way *so* cinematic that it's hard to believe this story has been told in any other medium. This movie is paced like a heart attack. Jess(i)e, both Buckley and Plemmons…