long live tacky extravagance, performative excess, artless luxury, and all forms of opulence for its own sake! long live bad taste!
synecdoche, new york is a love letter to the mentally ill, the chronic worriers, and anyone who has ever thought about death. all of those people are me, and this is my love letter to synecdoche, new york. i am doing Bad right now. for no particular rhyme or reason, i am just doing Bad, and i knew that this staggering colossus of a film may help me to sort through some of the thoughts that are uncomfortable to sit with.…
not a review, but a running internal monologue
-THE POPUP BOOK SCENE HOLY FUCKKK I LOVE CINEMA I LOVE ART I LOVE MASTERPIECES
-the scene where his family is working tirelessly to free paddington and he says “i hope they don’t forget about me” ...i’m broken ......
give me literally any reason other than “it’s for kids” that excuses this not winning best picture
the red sock in the laundry was an iconic fashion moment. also, entirely convinced that plot…
i was incredibly anxious for this film to come out. the material history of the black panther party consists largely of fbi propaganda; and naturally any film that passes through the capitalist dreamland that is hollywood is subject to the same institutional propaganda that led to the events of the film.
about 15 minutes in, i breathed a sigh of relief. the subject is treated with care, and grace; omitting gritty sensationalism for intricate and layered portrayals of key players.…