And the carnage, when it arrives, is staged with an aura of guttural bitterness that refuses to give gore-hounds their jollies, elaborating, instead, on the desolation of the characters committing the acts. Unlike his earlier Up the Yangtze, which benefited from a narrower focus and compressed timeline, This Is Not a Movie isn’t especially shapely or propulsive. Because Alex is myself stripped away a ton. When the demons appear in the film, and in terrifyingly fleeting glimpses, Perkins understands them to spring from the deepest chasms of human despair. She will have them film each other talking about their fears about their thesis project and then edit both themselves and the other person in the conversation. And then you have Maggie, who’s been without a safety net for a long time. There’s no separation between that and the system. She made her first impact at MGM as a loose-living jazz heroine of silent films like Harry Beaumont’s Our Dancing Daughters, dancing clunky Charlestons in her scanties and all but broadcasting, “I’m the easiest lay in the world!” Such sexual abandon never really left her, and she had to pay for it time and again on screen in the ‘30s and beyond. I’m trying to keep telling myself that. © IFC Films, As someone who’s not all that different from Alex, I didn’t feel like I had to travel far. In the end, it excels at capturing the emotional substance of what we think we remember. Basically, it’s like, how do you make something good or bad, right? Raiff remains as affable and easygoing as his film, a leisurely but lofty college-set tale of two young people coming to terms with the personal baggage that weighs on them. Yet Usha is once again unsatisfied, as she becomes convinced that Sandeep is the reincarnation of a man who once abused her. I don’t go to a script saying, “I have to figure this shit out.” But I am realizing that it does inform my life in the biggest way, where I didn’t think that before. Horror films remain perennially popular, despite periodic (and always exaggerated) rumors of their demise, even in the face of steadily declining ticket sales and desperately shifting models of distribution. When Annie, deep in the haze of misbegotten conviction, tells her son, “I’m the only one who can fix this,” she’s trying to rectify the sense of maternal guilt she feels for her daughter’s death. But if the film can at times suggest a West Coast-set Garden State, it’s a more emotionally mature, less grandiose examination of young people and their incipient strategies of coping with love and death than Zach Braff’s quirk fest. Through the decades—and subsequent crazes for color and sound, stereoscopy and anamorphosis—since that train threatened to barrel into the front row, there’s never been a time when audiences didn’t clamor for the palpating fingers of fear. Between the music notes, the notebook contains six creepy drawings that metaphorically come to pass in Julie’s life: Her prospects improve, but at the expense of the people in her way. Filho understands that an atmosphere of palpable dread sustains tension better than more sensational explication, and his commitment to withholding is, without exaggeration, worthy of Hitchcock. Figure out your shit, make your bed, take responsibility for your actions in a way that you’re moving or not moving. They Came Back is a triumph of internal horror, and unlike M. Night Shyamalan’s similarly moody freak-out The Sixth Sense, Robin Campillo’s vision of the dead sharing the same space as the living isn’t predicated on a gimmicky reduction of human faith. Williams’s action thriller casts Neeson’s as unassuming, denim-clad nice guy Tom Dolan, who has led a secret life as a bank robber known by the press-appointed sobriquet “the in and out bandit.” It’s a moniker ripe for riffs about hamburgers or intercourse, but Honest Thief is too stiff—certainly not too sophisticated—a film for wordplay spicier than the trite paradox in its title. But they choose to drink instead. In the ‘40s, the actress landed at Warner Bros. and make the holy trinity of films—Mildred Pierce, Humoresque, and Possessed—that would cement her legend, after which she would quickly start to amp up the camp across a series of films, both high and low. But in terms of the Zoom thing, it’s been really nice because I don’t have to drive in a car to go all these places. Shooting on an iPhone 7, the filmmaker continues finding economical solutions in a pinch. Best known for A Christmas Story and Porky’s, the late Bob Clark also helmed two of the best but underappreciated horror pictures of the 1970s. In any case, the truth of the matter—that the film is a pared-down, dried-out rehash of the half-dozen Neeson vehicles that preceded it—seems almost beside the point. I think, at the end of day, I could’ve gotten permission, but I didn’t have the time to ask. But I knew that I would love it. The intention behind that was to say, “How can I extend the conversation around incarceration, from a sort of black feminist point of view, from a familial point of view? Writer-director-star Cooper Raiff’s Shithouse, with its evident mumblecore influences (Jay Duplass even has a cameo), its soundtrack of morose acoustic string-plucking, and its probing of an adrift young white man’s soul, seems to have arrived in 2020 from an earlier era. I’m obsessed with that movie. The film has an eerily WTF arbitrariness that should be the domain of more films in the genre. | A defining moment in his career was the massacre of Palestinian refugees at the Sabra and Shatilas camps, carried out by Lebanese Christians but facilitated by Israeli forces. I think the bottom line of that and respect are the ingredients of making something that I think can live outside of the opaqueness of what you’re describing. The thing is, I’ve just been talking so much about how it’s universal. But the bubble of complacency in which these characters live doesn’t need to be punctured by violence. Her tense performance as a cranky cafe entertainer and prostitute in a town near a French Guiana penal colony is tiresomely one-note until she tries out that certain glamorously de-glamorized look out in the jungle, but the spiritual regeneration angle of the script does not suit a woman whose supposed last words were, “Don’t you dare ask God to help me!” Crawford’s image as star and woman is a matter of carefully nurtured bitterness; she’s as unforgiving as Ingmar Bergman and just as narrowly preoccupied with slights and sexuality. The film is a pretty bauble of a thing that ticks off the story’s shock revelations in an efficient, if not particularly surprising, fashion. I met her in the process of making it. Just the response that people are giving, it seems like they just think it’s me. Black Christmas, a slasher film that ranks second only to Halloween, features an inspired and bitchy turn by Margot Kidder as the horny head of a sorority house. Tempting as it might be to ascribe a master plan to Raiff’s rise, the Shithouse multihyphenate—actor, writer, director, editor—evinces no evidence of being a calculating wunderkind. The original ending, of Diane Baker screaming behind the door, is considerably harder to shake. But I think movies always fail people because they’re trying to be good instead of trying to say something. The repetitious plot is more ritual than text as we watch yet another Liam Neeson avenger defy the will of younger, unscrupulous men. Even the format’s deficiencies, from the rickety hum of sprockets to the instability of the frame, are savored by what seems like a nostalgic impulse—a fondness for the old-fashioned that even transforms the rough, granular quality of the haunted films themselves into something like pointillist paintings of the macabre. Paul: No one told us.’” Although he’s lived in Beirut most of his life, Fisk is no modern-day Lawrence of Arabia. Garrett Bradley’s films assume grand proportions through their sweeping titles: America, Alone, Like, and, now, Time. Though she worked with many fine directors across her career, all of Crawford’s films are essentially about her, and they need to be seen in terms of her unending thirst for publicity and attention, which still bears fruit and fans more than 40 years after her death. Campillo is more upfront than Shyamalan—it’s more or less understood that the presence of the living dead in his film is likely metaphoric—and he actually seems willing to plumb the moral oblivion created by the collision of its two worlds. And Shithouse is very comfortable with not being seen by a lot of people, it just comes across that way. Adrian Lyne’s Fatal Attraction is considered a sexist relic of the AIDS era, not without good reason, but it was also propulsive, stylish, nasty, and perceptive in pushing taboo buttons. Movies set at school, and college in particular, don’t really make a ton of space for stories like this about someone who’s feeling very alone and isolated. The myth of Joan Crawford’s life and career is inseparable from what she did on screen. Children.Shou...72.German.DL.1080p.BluRay.AVC-AVCiHD, Children.Shou...72.German.DL.1080p.BluRay.x264-SPiCY, Children.Shou...gs.1972.German.720p.BluRay.x264-SPiCY, Children.Shoul....1972.AC3.BDRip.x264.iNTERNAL-SPiCY, Children.Shou...s.1972.MULTi.COMPLETE.BLURAY-OLDHAM. Yeah, I mean, I still don’t really know what the thesis of college is, but I know the arguments. I think that’s who I am is someone who just moves about that way. I think I always enter a project first from the personal. If there’s one regret here it’s that Crawford’s ego supposedly botched the ending, which now has her sobbing on a porch in the fashion of a woman’s issue movie from the ‘40s. Few if any Hollywood-adjacent filmmakers have put as much brain power into making the digital revolution work for them as Soderbergh has, and even Unsane’s most ridiculous moments coast on the sheer energy of aesthetic gamesmanship. I wish I had a profound answer. If I could go back, I think I probably would have been more precious. It’s a film that explains who Crawford was better than just about anything else she did. Christopher Smith’s 14th-century period piece exudes an oppressive sense of physical, spiritual, and atmospheric weight, with grimy doom hanging in the air like the fog enshrouding its dense forests. I spoke with Raiff over Zoom the week prior to Shithouse opening in select theaters and on demand, a scale of release that thrilled him but by no means felt inevitable. Since Max has precious few plus-column characteristics that don’t fall under the categories of “handsome,” “wealthy,” and “smart dresser,” Mrs. de Winter’s travails after being trapped by her love for him are difficult to identify with. OK, so imagine it's 1972. Raiff had directed and shot a film about a homesick freshman and a savvy RA called Madeline & Cooper over spring break with $300, two friends, and stolen equipment from his college. Like another recent Blumhouse release, Veena Sud’s The Lie, Elan and Rajeev Dassani’s Evil Eye appears to prize characterization over lurid gimmickry, as well as suggests a more prestigious gloss on the production company’s brand. His story concerns a gang of thugs, torturers, and killers led by Ulric (Sean Bean), a devout soldier commissioned by the church to visit the lone, remote town in the land not afflicted by a fatal pestilence, where it’s suspected a necromancer is raising the dead. and Trog and all the rest of her contributions to the hag-horror genre. I thought it was just something that I was doing and meant a lot to me, but it was a separate thing. But experiencing so many people kind of even just talking about it in terms of “this is the filmmaker,” it’s like, “No, I’m not writing emotional propaganda!” I did write a character, and I drew upon my life in a major way as everyone does writing something personal and original.
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