Can't believe Richard E. Grant didn't win an Oscar for this.
Just bathe me in it. The wood. The oblivion of tree limbs and echoing screams and endless nightmares. Bing Crosby crooning away the final desperate moments of Crane's existence. The outstretched wail of the full moon beckons the light of evil, cackling and smiling along the path. All that's left was his hat.
Stands tall as a remarkable cultural object and a peerless evocation of a one-of-a-kind talent. Beyoncé shifted the paradigm for festival shows in a way that was previously held by Kanye at the Hollywood Bowl, and the experience behind the creation and flawless execution of said event is wonderfully balanced. Shout-out to the man near the end who basically shits himself all while wearing a "I got hot sauce in my bag" shirt.