In 1996 some asshole got me stoned and thought it would be funny to tell me we were watching Primal Fear and then put on the scene in this film where a guy with elephantitus of the nuts sat on his testicles like a bean bag. Then his pet ferret bit me. Fuck that guy and fuck Traces of Death IV.
Nathan Juran is the king of '50s giant monster films, and Ray Harryhausen is the greatest effects artist of the '50s, so this pairing is rightfully held up as a classic of the time. But truthfully, this is Harryhausen's showcase far more than Juran's, showcasing his amazing talent for detail in every way. It's an awesome monster created marvelously.
As for the rest of the film, it's a lot of hum drum conversations between scientists and the military. It's as…
Nacho Vigalondo's career has never been boring, as he jumps across multiple genres that almost always touch on something I'm into. There's no better example than Colossal, the Neon-produced exploration of gaslighting an addict as seen through the kaiju genre.
If that Venn diagram seems like it won't work... well, you might be right? It's so hard for me to tell, as I'm a very hardcore kaiju fan and I'm always a sucker for someone doing something new with the…
In order to make sure this Canadian Before Sunrise rip off didn’t get sued, they had to remove all the philosophical dialogue and effortless chemistry and replace it with conversations about hockey, long scenes of putting on jackets, and lifeless kissing.
The darkest jazz documentary I know of, this portrait of a great artist's messy life has that powerful late '80s vibe that the "pre-Sundance" generation of independent films harnesses. It's gritty, black and white and loosely filmed, far less concerned with linear storytelling than creating a tragic depth to his haunting musical output through stories of drug abuse, angry exes, abandoned children and Chet's self-created mythology.
