Textbook folk-horror. A 70s monument of chanting paganism, buried body parts, and sexually deviant teenagers, so not a stone’s throw from your average exploitation. So free of inhibitions that it risks toppling over, which is a small gripe for such a singularly down-and-dirty work. Mark Wilkinson’s score is the half of it, falling somewhere between every giallo ever made and Rosemary’s Baby. The Wicker Man’s chief competitor. In other words: fucking awesome, and as British as can be.
Similarly cerebral territory to Shane Carruth’s earlier film Primer, also proving that a bigger budget doesn’t necessarily mean a better film. Might be the closest thing I’ve seen to Terrence Malick post-millennium, which works for and against it considering everything I appreciated felt like a case of déjà vu. The central romance is hard to savour knowing about the off-screen scandal that would later be unearthed about the film’s leads, but it’s important to judge a film for its values…
I’m a failure. I never even finished school. I think about death too much. My brain is a prison. I’m getting fatter. My hair is too ginger in the sun. The 9-5 job I work is mindless. I’m estranged from my family. I’ve had addiction issues for ten years. They’re becoming a part of me. Just when I start to get clean, something sends me into relapse. I’m twenty-four but fifty seems imminent. I have spells of manic depression. Sometimes…
It's impossible for a movie to look better than this.
Where the rambling of an avid film student's critique usually starts with an infatuated commentary on the director, it's hard not to admit that the cinematography for Blade Runner 2049 is the dominant player. Roger Deakins is quite clearly an auteur in his own right, creating an extended universe of his own through the vibrancy of his lighting. Taking the steely blue pallet of Prisoners and merging it with the…