Recently Viewed: River (2023)

[The following review contains MINOR SPOILERS; YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!]

In many ways, River is less artistically ambitious than Beyond the Infinite Two Minutes, its spiritual predecessor (with which it shares the same writer and director, as well as several actors).

For one thing, the mechanics governing the temporal paradox around which its plot revolves are much more conventional. Unlike the earlier movie’s bold, novel, innovative experimentation with “the Droste effect/mise en abyme,” River features a relatively traditional time loop; every few minutes, the characters are abruptly teleported back to the beginning of the cycle—a phenomenon akin to rewinding a VHS tape or reloading a save file in a video game. Consequently, its visual style is comparatively modest. Whereas the previous film is presented in a single, seamless, uninterrupted shot (or rather a reasonable facsimile thereof), for example, the anachronic structural framework here allows the editors to dispense with such elaborate illusions; whenever the action “resets,” the transition between each repetition is easily “hidden” in plain sight via a blatant match cut—an obvious yet elegant solution to an inherently challenging (and extremely popular) gimmick.

Despite these superficial differences, River manages to rival its companion piece where it really matters—in sheer unpredictability. As the narrative unfolds, the initially comedic conflict gradually evolves, veering into delightfully unexpected dramatic territory. Indeed, the story eventually develops into a genuinely compelling meditation on the self-destructive nature of anticipatory anxiety—how an irrational fear of the future can halt a person in their tracks, preventing them from moving forward, making progress, pursuing their dreams, living—with the eponymous body of water (constant, ceaseless, relentlessly flowing) serving as a brilliant central metaphor.

While River owes its greatest emotional resonance to its imaginative premise, deft tonal shifts, and rich thematic subtext, however, its true appeal lies in its simpler moment-to-moment pleasures—ultimately, it excels because it’s just cute, charming, and a whole lot of fun. What more could you ask for from a cinematic experience?

Recently Viewed: Juror #2

[The following review contains SPOILERS; YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!]

There’s a recurring image in Juror #2 that is as impactful as it is unapologetically unsubtle. In front of the courthouse wherein much of the plot unfolds stands the familiar statue of Lady Justice, her iconography instantly recognizable—blind, impartial, passing judgment with unwavering objectivity. The scales that she holds, however, are conspicuously unbalanced, swaying erratically in the relentless wind. The metaphor is blunt, but undeniably effective, efficiently conveying the film’s central thesis—that these symbols are inherently illusory, and the legal system that they represent is fundamentally flawed.

The premise is a delightfully novel variation on the 12 Angry Men formula. What if, the story asks, Henry Fonda’s character had been motivated by a guilty conscience rather than pure altruism? Suppose that, during the course of the trial, he suddenly realized that he was directly responsible for the alleged “murder” (in actuality a tragic accident) in question; would he be able to convince his fellow jurors to acquit the defendant without simultaneously incriminating himself? Would this otherwise decent man even deserve to escape the consequences of his actions? Why, after all, should he remain free while an innocent person languishes in a prison cell in his stead?

Can remorse alone absolve someone of their sins?

Clint Eastwood wisely adopts an unobtrusive visual style, allowing the deliciously complex conflict to speak for itself. He favors tight closeups, emphasizing the magnificently nuanced performances. Nicholas Hoult is particularly impressive in the title role; his expressive eyes clearly convey the tortured protagonist’s shame, anguish, and sheer desperation. Toni Collette likewise excels as the ruthlessly ambitious prosecutor, who becomes increasingly haunted by (reasonable) doubt as the deliberation process drags on—forcing her to reexamine her preconceptions and decide what she really values: the truth… or her own political aspirations.

Ultimately, Juror #2 is an old school morality play of the highest caliber—lean, economical, and (an unevenly paced first act notwithstanding) thoroughly engrossing. The greatest crime is that the movie received such a pitifully minuscule theatrical release; a drama this mature, thematically rich, and exquisitely crafted demands to be a major cinematic event.

Recently Viewed: Hundreds of Beavers

[The following review contains SPOILERS; YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!]

Hundreds of Beavers isn’t just the best comedy released to the general public in 2024; it is also quite possibly the greatest live-action cartoon ever made.

Embracing the delicate art of slapstick with an unapologetic sincerity rarely glimpsed since the silent era, the film miraculously manages to sustain the gleefully anarchic tone of your typical Wile E. Coyote short for the entire duration of its feature length running time. It accomplishes this impressive feat by adopting a hybrid narrative structure. Although the plot primarily revolves around a relentless barrage of sight gags (most of which are variations on the theme of a bumbling fur trader and his ostensibly “adorable” prey repeatedly inflicting sadistic physical violence upon one another), it is not, in fact, strictly episodic; on the contrary, every detail, no matter how seemingly insignificant at first glance, is absolutely integral to the overarching story. The pair of woodland critters that resemble Sherlock Holmes and Watson, for example, aren’t merely an amusing one-off joke; they eventually play a substantial role during the third act. The absurdly chaotic climax, meanwhile, serves as a sort of final exam, testing the myriad skills that the protagonist has acquired throughout the preceding scenes. Even a humble trapping pit established way back in the tale's inciting incident (after which it was probably swiftly forgotten by the average viewer) pays off spectacularly later on—i.e., nearly an hour after its initial introduction!

Boasting imaginative mixed-media visuals (incorporating puppetry, CGI, and intentionally crude hand-drawn animation), delightfully frenetic fight choreography, an outstanding lead performance by Ryland Brickson Cole Tews (which combines the exaggerated mannerisms of Jim Carrey, the paradoxical mischievous pathos of Chaplin’s Little Tramp, and the “rubber hose” style of character design popularized by Max Fleischer), and genuinely gorgeous black-and-white cinematography, Hundreds of Beavers is a feast for the eyes as well as the funny bone. Immaculately crafted and unabashedly immature in equal measure (toilet humor abounds), it is a wholly unique experience. “Masterpiece” is too inadequate a descriptor; this cannot be properly classified or categorized as anything less than an essential, genre-redefining work.

Recently Viewed: Creature from the Black Lagoon

Creature from the Black Lagoon belongs to the horror genre; that much is obvious. Not from the perspective of the human “protagonists,” though; their journey is more akin to an old school pulp serial, with a group of improbably attractive, aggressively Caucasian scientists venturing to an “exotic” locale (heavily armed, naturally) in search of fortune and glory. The true terror is experienced by the eponymous monster: from its point-of-view, a bunch of violent outsiders invade its territory and attack it without provocation, intent on exploiting its very existence for monetary gain.

Now tell me: who is supposed to be the “hero” in this scenario?

[And yes, this premise does sound surprisingly critical of capitalism, colonialism, and chauvinism by the standards of America circa 1954—which is probably why its deeper implications are relegated to mere subtext.]

The movie is, of course, justifiably celebrated for its technological innovations: beyond its original 3D format (which hasn’t been terribly well preserved on home video), the ambitious underwater cinematography is still absolutely spectacular, while the delightfully tactile “rubber suit” effects utilized to bring the Gill-man to life remain impressive even in a modern context. What really appealed to me, however, was director Jack Arnold’s effortless command of the fundamentals of visual storytelling. I would describe his style as blunt, yet purposeful, conveying the film’s central themes elegantly and economically. Consider, for example, the following shot:

Despite the relative simplicity of its blocking and composition, the image is dense with narrative significance. To the far left, Mark Williams—the financier of the expedition to the titular Black Lagoon—complains about the steep cost of the excursion, outright admitting that he’s banking on discovering a flashy, marketable novelty in order to recoup the expenses. On the opposite side of the screen, marine biologist David Reed argues that such a mercenary attitude is antithetical to the spirit of serious research; the pursuit of knowledge, he insists, requires a leap of faith—for the sake of progress, one must be willing to accept the inherent risk of failure. And situated at the literal center of the debate is love interest Kay, valiantly (albeit futilely) attempting to mediate between the two irreconcilable extremes.

In short, Creature from the Black Lagoon manages to distill its entire overarching conflict to a single frame. And that is the epitome of immaculate craftsmanship.

Recently Viewed: Creepy

[The following review contains MAJOR SPOILERS; YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!]

With the possible exception of The Man Who Killed Hitler and Then the Bigfoot, Creepy is probably the most accurate title in the history of cinema. That single six-letter adjective describes the pervasively unsettling atmosphere of Kiyoshi Kurosawa’s 2016 psychological thriller elegantly, economically, and succinctly. Like the director’s own Cure, the film finds horror not in shallow jump scares, grotesque gore effects, or supernatural mischief, but rather in something far more chillingly universal: the nuances of human behavior.

To call the movie’s central antagonist a “serial killer” would be an egregious understatement; that label seems too mundane to apply to his insidious modus operandi. He doesn’t merely butcher his victims’ bodies: he infiltrates their lives, erodes their agency and free will, and unravels their interpersonal relationships. Their minds, spirits, and very identities evaporate long before their flesh expires, reducing them to little more than docile, submissive zombies—obedient (albeit unwitting) accomplices to the psychopath’s sadistic crime spree. Most terrifyingly, it isn't particularly difficult to corrupt them; the oppressive, overwhelming burdens of societal norms and cultural conventions have already irreparably weakened their resolve—their tormentor simply needs to discover and exploit their vulnerabilities, gradually chipping away at their brittle defenses until they finally (inevitably) shatter.

The visual style perfectly complements the story’s underlying themes and conflicts. The protagonist, a former police detective haunted by his catastrophic failure to negotiate a hostage situation in the recent past, copes with his physical and mental trauma by burying himself in his new profession as a college lecturer; beneath his façade of passivity and numb contentment, however, he’s clearly eager to atone for his mistakes—making it relatively easy for an ex-colleague to lure him back into the fold with the promise of an especially baffling missing persons case. As the investigation demands more of his attention (indeed, his “purely academic interest” in the disappearances quickly evolves into an all-consuming obsession), his wife begins to feel increasingly neglected and abandoned; despite her valiant efforts to swallow her misgivings and play the role of a dutiful homemaker and productive member of the local community (though the neighbors tend to be either indifferent or outright hostile, consistently rebuffing her attempts to befriend them), her loneliness, alienation, and isolation remain painfully obvious. Consequently, the couple is frequently framed in claustrophobic, symmetrical, fragmented compositions, the space surrounding them externalizing their repressed anxieties, insecurities, and resentments. The camerawork—which is often so subtle that it borders in subliminal—reinforces this sense of emotional inflexibility; these characters are trapped in private purgatories of their own design—and because the editing implements cuts so sparingly, the audience is forced to suffer alongside them through a series of excruciatingly long, uninterrupted takes, ensnaring subject and viewer alike in an inescapable prison of time.

Ultimately, Creepy closely resembles the murderer around whom its plot revolves: it crawls inside your skull and lingers in your subconscious, refusing to grant you a moment of respite. It’s a deliciously disturbing experience; I savored every unnerving image… but having thus feasted on its rich subtext and complex social commentary, I doubt that I’ll revisit it any time soon.

Recently Viewed: Peeping Tom

[The following review contains MAJOR SPOILERS; YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!]

Michael Powell's Peeping Tom opens with an extreme closeup of an eye—a striking image that immediately establishes the story's central theme. The film revolves entirely around voyeurism: the power of the observer versus the vulnerability of the observed; the conflict between blindness (both figurative and literal) and perception (e.g., recognizing that a seemingly unassuming neighbor is, in actuality, suspiciously stealthy, rather than innocuously shy); and the overwhelming anxiety of being seen.

The protagonist is a (reluctant) serial killer that meticulously, obsessively records his violent activities, wielding his camera as though it’s an extension of his body and soul—a distorted manifestation of his fractured psyche and repressed libido. His weapon of choice is the spiked leg of a tripod; whenever he brandishes the makeshift blade, preparing to deliver the gruesome coup de grace, he forces his victims to gaze into a mirror—confronting the warped reflection of their own terror, trauma, and anguish. To paraphrase the playful description of his modus operandi that he provides in one particularly unnerving scene: he watches them watching him watching themselves.

Ultimately, Peeping Tom's immaculate craftsmanship and harmonious marriage of style and substance perfectly encapsulate why I find the relatively recent term “elevated horror” so utterly infuriating. It’s an egregiously reductive, misleading label, implying that the “traditional” version of the genre (which is too often conflated with the deliberately trashy slasher flicks of the ‘80s) is artistically inferior by its very nature—that critically acclaimed works like Jordan Peele’s Get Out or Ari Aster’s Hereditary are rare exceptions to some unwritten rule. But rich, profound, meaningful "scary movies" predate those comparatively modern examples by decades; such compellingly chilling masterpieces (including Psycho, M, and—to name a slightly more obscure title—Peter Bogdanovich’s Targets) have always existed in the medium of cinema.

You simply need to know where and how to look.

Recently Viewed: Alice, Sweet Alice

While Alice, Sweet Alice (alternatively titled Communion and Holy Terror) ostensibly takes place in the early 1960s, its themes are decidedly post-Watergate, betraying its 1976 release date (alongside the anachronistic costumes and hairstyles).

The film is aggressively critical of authority, adopting a tone that is pessimistic to an almost absurd, surreal degree. The police, for example, are incompetent at best and corrupt at worst—quick to jump to conclusions and condescendingly dismissive of the public’s justifiable concerns. The church is likewise utterly ineffectual; whatever spiritual guidance religion may provide is irrevocably, irreconcilably tainted by the moral hypocrisy of the congregation. Even the family unit has eroded beyond recognition; parents are obliviously neglectful, often inadvertently favoring one child over another for totally arbitrary reasons. This pervasive sense of societal decay and the desecration of “traditional values” is personified by the character of Mr. Alphonso, a grotesque, lecherous landlord that spies on his tenants, slurps cat food straight out of the can… and shamelessly lusts after little girls. It's an inherently cruel and fundamentally nihilistic setting, predominantly populated by sadists and sociopaths; no wonder, then, that the victims of its myriad iniquities and indignities are so prone to brutal violence.

This relentlessly bleak atmosphere makes Alice, Sweet Alice oppressively unnerving before a single drop of blood has been shed (though the obligatory masked killer rapidly accumulates a respectable pile of corpses—in quite gruesome fashion, at that). Its flavor of horror is quintessentially ‘70s: gritty, cynical, and gleefully transgressive. It’s giallo by way of John Waters—and I adored every gloriously excessive frame of it.

Recently Viewed: The Slumber Party Massacre

[The following review contains MAJOR SPOILERS; YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!]

For approximately ninety percent of its (extremely brief) running time, The Slumber Party Massacre is, to put it bluntly, an atrociously bad slasher flick. The cinematography is flat and inert, depriving the action of any semblance of suspense, atmosphere, or urgency. Interminably long, monotonous scenes awkwardly limp towards flaccid payoffs; neither the scares nor the jokes land successfully, further muddling the already inconsistent tone. The performances are wooden at best, making it virtually impossible to get invested in the conflict. Perhaps most damningly, the psychotic killer du jour is relatively uninspired, lacking the distinguishing features (sinister mask, grotesque deformity) that might otherwise have allowed him to compete with such horror icons as Jason Voorhees and Freddy Krueger; he’s just a generic dude, bland and unmemorable. Indeed, that basically sums up the movie as whole: dull, tedious, and excruciatingly boring.

Until, that is, the plot arrives at the climactic showdown, whereupon the murderer directly addresses his would-be victim for the first time, thus providing a glimpse into his twisted subconscious:

Those chilling lines of dialogue almost redeem the entire film—almost. Suddenly, the feminist subtext that was heretofore obscured by layers of gratuitous nudity and obligatory exploitative content bursts to the surface of the narrative. The phallic implications of the villain’s weapon of choice (an enormous power drill), for example, are revealed to be totally intentional—especially once the Final Girl manages to damage the comically oversized tool, symbolically castrating her tormentor. Even the antagonist’s nondescript physical appearance resonates with newfound thematic significance: the ultimate threat to our heroine’s safety isn’t some hulking brute wielding a machete or a scarred dream demon with razors for fingers, but rather a random face in the crowd, seemingly mundane and unassuming. It’s social commentary of the highest caliber—compelling, insightful, and (unfortunately) still relevant.

I sincerely wish that it was in service of a better story.

Recently Viewed: Torso

I’ll say this for Torso: it wastes little time; within the first ten seconds of the opening credits, a woman has already removed her shirt, posed seductively for the benefit of the camera, and engaged in an awkward pantomime of sexual intercourse. While such shallow, obligatory titillation doesn’t normally appeal to me, I admire director Sergio Martino’s lack of pretense: he knows exactly what his audience expects and delivers the goods almost immediately.

The film is otherwise rather pedestrian by giallo standards; then again, pretty much everything pales in comparison to the seminal works produced by Mario Bava (Blood and Black Lace, A Bay of Blood) and Dario Argento (The Bird with the Crystal Plumage, Deep Red). I’d characterize the cinematography as competent and serviceable, but relatively unspectacular; the lighting, for example, is borderline naturalistic, with nary a colored gel in sight. Nevertheless, the action is punctuated by just enough bold, moody compositions to keep the viewer invested. This stylistic patience pays off during the movie’s explosive climax, when all of the previously restrained excess and maximalism are finally unleashed in a single magnificent set piece: a deliciously suspenseful game of cat-and-mouse that features minimal dialogue for nearly twenty minutes—a masterclass in silent storytelling.

Ultimately, Torso is the genre equivalent of a palate cleanser: run-of-the-mill, middle-of-the-road, and aggressively average. And that’s not necessarily a negative criticism; there’s great artistic value in being unexceptional. Not every meal needs to be a five-star gourmet experience; occasionally, a simple peanut butter and jelly sandwich will suffice.

Recently Viewed - Tokyo: The Last War

Like many a follow-up to a bona fide cult classic, Tokyo: The Last War (sequel to Tokyo: The Last Megalopolis) is widely considered to be inferior to its predecessor; the reviews that I’d read online were almost universally negative, dismissing it as overly derivative of trashy, formulaic, uninspired American slasher flicks (the later entries in the Nightmare on Elm Street franchise serving as a particularly reductive, unflattering point of comparison). This unenthusiastic reception failed to deter me from purchasing a copy of Media Blasters’ recent Blu-ray release (under the alternative title of Doomed Megalopolis 2) at this year’s Anime NYC convention, of course—and the official beginning of the Spooky Season seemed an appropriate occasion to finally give the disc a spin.

To the surprise of nobody familiar with my easily pleased cinematic palate, I disagree with the critical consensus. Despite its obviously lean budget—which necessitates a less sprawling cast and more modest special effects than the preceding film—The Last War still manages to feel ambitious within its relative limitations. Indeed, I’d even argue that the narrower narrative focus lends the plot a greater degree of urgency and momentum; it is, after all, significantly easier for the audience to become invested in a conflict that revolves around a small handful of genuinely sympathetic characters, as opposed to a bloated, unwieldy ensemble of vaguely sketched archetypes.

Additionally, it’s not as though the movie is lacking in visual flair; it is consistently as spectacular as it can afford to be. There’s an especially impressive sequence, for example, in which the nefarious Yasunori Kato (a role reprised by the inimitable Kyusaku Shimada, whose magnetic screen presence elevates every scene—including those in which he never physically appears) slaughters a group of soldiers in magnificently brutal fashion. One poor bastard is hoisted aloft by psychokinetic energy and slowly twisted in half at the waist; another is decapitated by flying debris, his headless corpse twitching and spasming for several seconds after the fact. The commanding officer, however, suffers the most gruesome demise: forced by supernatural means to clutch a live grenade, the man can do nothing but scream and flail in desperation until the explosive inevitably ignites, graphically (albeit not entirely convincingly) tearing him to shreds.

Ultimately, Tokyo: The Last War hardly deserves its less-than-stellar reputation; it’s perfectly enjoyable on its own merits. Sure, it veers closer to conventional horror than the series’ previous installment (which is best described as “epic urban fantasy”)—but as a fan of both genres, I find absolutely nothing wrong with that. Heck, in my opinion, this dramatic departure in tone and style only makes it more interesting. Not better, mind you—just compellingly different.

Recently Viewed: Hit Man

Hit Man features a multitude of compelling themes, meditating on the conflict between public and private personae, the subjective nature of truth and deception, and how adopting a false identity can ironically result in self-actualization.

First and foremost, though, it’s about Glen Powell’s effortless charisma, magnetic screen presence, and sheer sex appeal.

This playfully dark, quirky, noir-flavored romcom is an old school star vehicle of the highest caliber, boasting a novel premise and sharp, witty script that give the lead actor plenty of space to flaunt his versatility as a performer. The protagonist—a mild-mannered college professor that gradually discovers his repressed confidence by moonlighting as an undercover operative for the local police department—is a deliciously complex character, and Powell clearly relishes the opportunity to explore his various facets and nuances (which, of course, entails donning a succession of increasingly absurd disguises, complete with dodgy wigs, fake teeth, and latex scars). Director Richard Linklater—who is quietly one of the most chameleonic auteurs currently working in the industry, with a filmography that includes both the boldly experimental Boyhood and the unapologetically populist School of Rock—wisely remains an unobtrusive presence, adopting a relatively invisible authorial voice and creative vision. His camera is neither a voyeuristic observer nor an omnipotent moral judge; it simply tells the story—efficiently, competently, and without unnecessary spectacle.

In an age where every major studio release is seemingly required to be a huge Event (and believe me, the capital E isn't silent), Hit Man might not sound terribly exciting; indeed, it makes little effort to be stylish, profound, or innovative. It is, however, charming, laid-back, and a whole lot of fun. And honestly, those modest artistic ambitions lend the movie a refreshing sense of earnestness and sincerity that recent cinema (oversaturated as it is with blandly inoffensive IP-based blockbusters and cynical postmodern deconstructions thereof) has been sorely lacking.

Recently Viewed: Master Gardener

Master Gardner opens with the quintessential Paul Schrader image: a character in an otherwise empty room hunched over a writing desk, scribbling in a journal. That’s the entire film in a nutshell, really: the director’s stylistic trademarks and thematic obsessions distilled to their purest forms, leaving behind no trace of excess fat or bloat.

The movie’s efficient, economical, methodical visual language resembles the gardens described by the frequent voiceover narration. The eponymous horticulturalist strives to sculpt botanical spectacles that simulate the spontaneity of nature through meticulously controlled cultivation and selective pruning. The setting that he inhabits is likewise rigid and inflexible, defined by oppressively symmetrical framing and shot compositions that stand in stark contrast to the chaotic subtext lurking beneath the story’s surface—a compellingly contradictory marriage of technical precision and narrative ambiguity. Our protagonist is haunted by dark memories; the intricate tattoos scrawled across his flesh serve as a permanent reminder of his shameful history of bigotry and bloodshed. The inherent tension between the relatively peaceful existence that he now enjoys and his desire to atone for his past sins lends the central conflict a pervasive atmosphere of inevitability: just as a seed must take root and a flower needs to bloom, so too is this latest incarnation of the “God’s Lonely Man” archetype inexorably propelled towards violence—the ultimate act of redemption.

Master Gardener is, in short, the epitome of transcendental cinema: elegantly simple, deliciously subtle, and sublimely minimalistic.

Recently Viewed: The Substance

[The following review contains SPOILERS; YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!]

I’m trying to remove the term “body horror” from my film criticism vocabulary; it’s simply too broadly applicable to be useful as a proper genre classification. In the case of The Substance, though, the shoe fits. Following in the footsteps of such trailblazers as David Cronenberg, Stuart Gordon, and Clive Barker, director Coralie Fargeat embraces the inherent allure of physical transformation, finding sensuality in what might otherwise be considered grotesque; metamorphosis is, after all, an act of rebellion, symbolizing spiritual rejuvenation, liberation from social norms, and transcendence of the flesh.

The movie is, however, a razor-sharp satire first and foremost—a pitch-black comedy drenched in a dissonant cotton candy color palette. The story dissects the shallow superficiality of the entertainment industry, which equates value with conventional beauty; this exaggerated (albeit to a very small degree) depiction of the Hollywood machine reduces human beings to mere commodities, callously discarding them once they’ve been thoroughly exploited—a cruel (and fundamentally misogynistic) attitude personified by Dennis Quaid’s sleazy, arrogant, amoral producer archetype. I hate to hand it to a guy that recently starred in right-wing propaganda masquerading as a run-of-the-mill biopic/vanity project, but Quaid absolutely understands (and relishes) his assignment here, delivering quite possibly the best supporting performance of the year—a crude, vulgar caricature of masculinity so toxic that it infects and corrupts everything it touches. Demi Moore and Margaret Qualley both excel in their comparatively nuanced and emotionally demanding roles, of course, but without Quaid’s deliciously depraved and unapologetically one-dimensional antagonist, the conflict wouldn’t crackle with nearly as much urgency and intensity.

Unfortunately, The Substance is as flawed as the chemical procedure around which its plot revolves, resembling the shambling, misshapen monstrosity that emerges during the climax. At 140 minutes long, the narrative is too bloated and unwieldy to sustain the premise, even taking the genuinely unpredictable twists and turns into account; additionally, the central theme occasionally drowns in its own metaphors and allegories. Nevertheless, I greatly enjoyed the experience, blemishes included; its minor imperfections only serve to make it more compelling.

Recently Viewed: She Is Conann

How to describe She Is Conann? The film resists literalist readings, eschewing traditional narrative in favor of concocting a hallucinatory mélange of allegory, mythology, and Jungian archetype. Attempting to summarize the skeletal “plot” in concrete terms is a fruitless endeavor, akin to gripping sand in your fist; the harder you squeeze, the more grains slip through your fingers—you’ll only ever manage to capture a meager handful.

Sure, you can convincingly argue that the story is “a feminist take on Conan the Barbarian” (Wikipedia certainly does); heck, if you’re feeling particularly adventurous, you might even be tempted to dissect its structural similarities to Cloud Atlas (though whereas that time-bending sci-fi spectacle featured actors playing multiple characters across the ages, this gritty anti-genre oddity adopts the opposite approach, with various facets of the protagonist’s persona portrayed by a succession of different performers)—but what do such superficial observations actually reveal about its tone, style, and atmosphere? Analyzing the movie’s thematic subtext (the conflict revolves around the heroine repeatedly “killing” her past identities in pursuit of a nebulous future, utilizing the concept of the “shadow self” as a manifestation of her increasingly fractured psyche) is likewise an exercise in futility; perusing my interpretation of the material is no substitute for experiencing Bertrand Mandico’s delightfully deranged creative vision firsthand.

Ultimately, She Is Conann is a defiantly unclassifiable object, straddling the razor-thin line between avant-garde art and sleazy exploitation cinema; it is, in other words, aggressively French. I won’t pretend to understand its appeal (indeed, I’ve yet to fully digest the subtleties beneath its surface-level maximalism); nevertheless, I thoroughly enjoyed briefly surfing the euphoric crests and baffling troughs of its unapologetically offbeat wavelength.

Apparently, it’s Batman Day.

What better way to celebrate than seeing the best superhero film ever made on the big screen?

Recently Viewed: Lingua Franca

[The following review contains MAJOR SPOILERS; YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!]

Near the conclusion of Isabel Sandoval’s quietly beautiful Lingua Franca, there is an utterly gut-wrenching scene in which the two protagonists essentially inhabit completely separate movies. As they slow dance in a dive bar—bathed, of course, in moody red light—recovering alcoholic Alex (Eamon Farren, personifying bruised masculinity) offers to marry Olivia, his grandmother’s live-in caretaker (portrayed by Sandoval herself). Although the proposal is primarily pragmatic—Olivia is an illegal immigrant, and desperately needs a green card to avoid deportation—it is also motivated by genuine love and affection. Overwhelmed by the seemingly selfless gesture, Olivia attempts to come clean about a secret that she has been keeping—one that she fears will irrevocably alter how Alex perceives her. In an effort to assuage her misplaced guilt, Alex insists that he'll stand by her no matter what; in the process of expressing this superficially noble sentiment, however, he inadvertently exposes his own deception—a far more terrible act of manipulation and exploitation that recontextualizes the couple's entire relationship. As he continues to sway to the music—totally oblivious to his verbal mishap—his eyes remain closed, basking in the ignorant bliss of romance; hers, on the other hand, are wide with horror—clearly conveying the feelings of anguish, betrayal, and violation that she is experiencing.

As far as climaxes go, it’s subtle—but that restraint hardly diminishes the moment's emotional impact. Lingua Franca is the perfect example of substance as style. Like the exquisite works of Chantal Akerman, the film is epic and intimate in equal measure: its visuals are spectacularly spare, its performances seductively naturalistic, its conflicts and characters captivatingly mundane. It is, in short, absolutely sublime—a patient, understated masterpiece that is thematically rich beyond compare, insightfully deconstructing the human condition, the gender binary, and the ever-elusive American Dream.

Recently Viewed - DAN DA DAN: First Encounter

Prior to seeing DAN DA DAN: First Encounter—a special theatrical premiere event for Science SARU’s latest anime series, presented by North American distributor GKIDS—I knew absolutely nothing about either the show or its source material (a manga that is apparently quite popular in its native Japan). This canny bit of marketing therefore served its purpose magnificently; I am now thoroughly invested in this story… though not enough, perhaps, to religiously tune in as it airs—I mean, who has the time to keep up with television, amirite? I will, however, definitely be binging it as soon as it’s available in its entirety; this three-episode tease was simply too promising to ignore.

I won’t discuss the plot in detail; this is a work that benefits greatly from the element of surprise. Suffice it to say that the narrative is as economical as it is relentlessly paced. Characters and conflicts are introduced quickly and elegantly, with nuances developing and complications arising gradually and organically—frequently defying or outright subverting the audience’s initial impressions. Indeed, the genre is virtually unclassifiable, abruptly shifting between romcom, slapstick, action, sci-fi, and horror—often in the span of a single scene.

Whatever its tone may be at any given moment, DAN DA DAN is consistently funny (some instances of crude/perverse humor—including a particularly juvenile preoccupation with partial nudity, genitalia, and various bodily functions—notwithstanding). The running gag revolving around the female protagonist’s obsession with prolific tough-guy actor Ken Takakura, for example, was seemingly written to appeal to me specifically. Sadly, few of my fellow patrons appreciated (or understood) the joke—which made me feel like the loneliest cinephile in the whole world.

I have only two minor complaints about the experience, neither of which can be blamed on the show itself. First, the promotional interviews with the cast and crew should have followed the feature presentation, rather than preceding it; while the peek behind the scenes was perfectly enjoyable, it also sucked the energy out of the theater before the screening had even begun—the crowd’s impatience was positively palpable. And second, the house lights came back up approximately ten minutes too early—which is, unfortunately, par for the course at AMC’s inadequately staffed venues these days.

Otherwise, consider me a satisfied customer. Discovering DAN DA DAN on the big screen was a total blast; glad I made the spur-of-the-moment decision to purchase the ticket!