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.
The best example of this kind-hearted vampire film is when chic Sara Montpetit has her Girl Walks Home Alone At Night dance scene, except it’s an embarrassing, stiff-armed shimmy to Brenda Lee. Adorable.
My memories of childhood are dotted with these odd, dreamlike moments when somehow I managed to find Swamp Thing playing on TV. These hazy scenes of grey swamps, ugly military assholes, and a water-logged monster that talks like a scientist place me in specific living rooms, nervously looking at the door in case my mom walked in and took offense to the onscreen chaos.
Wes Craven's take on the comic book genre has the pacing of a vintage PBS nature…
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.
