• Things


    Not real

  • The Fifth Cord

    The Fifth Cord


    Nero, Morricone, Storaro—what more do I need to say? If that trio doesn’t sell you on just how good The Fifth Cord is, I don’t know what will.

    The plot is a bit convoluted and starts to lose a bit of steam in the second act, but things pick upon again and don’t stop. The last 20 minutes of this thing are a masterclass in suspense, as the stakes are raised rather abruptly and Nero goes from sloshed journalist-cum-investigator to full…

  • Intruder



    Ludicrous late-80s slasher that never gets old. No matter how many times I watch it, I’ll never get tired of spotting old Frosted Flakes boxes or generic ‘Beer’ cans of beer in the background. 

    Ted Raimi listening to the same song over and over while working retail is very relatable, this thing oozes 80s energy and the killer (and his motive) are just too absurd not to love. For all its flaws, Intruder keeps you guessing and has that oddly cozy vibe that the best vintage horror flicks have.

    There really should’ve been more cut-em-ups that took place in grocery stores…

  • The Stuff
  • Armageddon


    Trash of Criterion 🚮 Film Club

    Having Ben Affleck or Liv Tyler in your movie is bad enough… having Ben Affleck and Liv Tyler in your movie ought to be a fucking crime.

    I really have no desire to talk about this movie; it’s the baseline late-90s/early-00s blockbuster disaster movie that’s technically sound enough but the script is cheesy with zero charm and it somehow manages to feel twice as long as the 150 minute runtime actually is. Extra point for…

  • La Notte

    La Notte


    “I owe you a debt. I withdrew from the game.”

    ”Let me savor that debt… a bit longer”

    Nothing like some weary indifference towards industrialized modernism, personal emptiness and matrimonial dissolution over smooooooth jazz.

    Antonioni refuses to allow the bourgeoisie to experience happiness and I love him for it.

  • South Slope: What Love Tells Me

    South Slope: What Love Tells Me


    Meader is undeniably one of the great filmic poets. He captures the splendor of nature like few others, and South Slope is no exception, with a presentation of the cycling of seasons seen through the eyes of him and his family in their backyard. The Mahler piece (while great by itself) I felt detracted from the experience quite a bit, giving the film a feeling bordering on the saccharine at times. I’d always rather these kinds of works be silent so I can either view them without sound, or pair them with music of my choosing (some Hatakeyama would’ve been perfect for this).

    Needed more cat footage.

  • Pulse



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  • Ossos



    The sun rarely shines upon the slums.

    Throughout Ossos, we very rarely see above the concrete maze that engulfs our characters. There seems to be no sky in sight; no escape from the narrow confinement of poverty that has transformed these people from humans to piles of bones who spend their days aimlessly wandering the back alleys that make up their labyrinthine purgatory. Muddy water on the ground stains the soles of their shoes, each cigarette seems to smolder slower…

  • Bullet Ballet

    Bullet Ballet


    Symphonic disintegration of self. A study of volatile symbiosis.

    Steel is made by severing the oxygen from iron and adding carbon, which then forms a strong bond when heated to three thousand degrees Fahrenheit. This refines the metal and removes any impurities. Much of this steel is turned into structures that tower high over and surround us from seemingly every direction. But some of it is broken down, reshaped and compacted to fit a unique form: a gun. Guns are…

  • Zombi Child

    Zombi Child


    At one point the girls in this movie are listening to a French rapper and he says something like: “I will always piss on the Champs-Élysées“ and I just could not contain my laughter.

    I appreciated the anticolonialist message, but it felt a bit muddied by the white girl trying to use voodoo on her ex-boyfriend… like, what? Maybe it is seeking to acquaint cultural appropriation with colonialism? I don’t know—this was all over the place really. It does have…

  • Maborosi



    These rooms we used to sit in feel larger now. Blank, placid spaces—too still in your absence. Why did you leave me? Was it something I did? Did I push you away? Were the pressures of the world, of fatherhood, of our relationship too much for you? Our backstreet feels quieter now; when the people come out, I still feel as faraway as ever. How long must I continue on living with this deleterious despondency? Will those sights and sounds…