We’ve got Fight Club at home—only without the satirical edge. It only wears the whole “manosphere” thing as a coat. There is no real interrogation of the concept. There are no real insights into toxic masculinity. It is all just obvious trite observations trying to form a standard cult story but even failing at that. The cult seduction does not work because it does not work on us, the audience.
Ralphie is a piece of shit from the beginning. There…
The movie opens with a TextEdit document being typed on instead of opening credits, interspersed with clips whose diegetic status is unclear. It immediately intrigued me. It is the core power of this film, where the line between autobiographical truth by writer/director Zia Anger and fiction is so blurred as to be almost meaningless. This gives the entire movie an incredibly intensely personal tone that borders on uncomfortable (in a good way).
This personal lens means that several cinematic touches…
This is cinema.
Using visuals and sound to not just tell a story, but to truly communicate something. It would be folly to look at this just as a narrative, this movie is saying something true and emotional. Something that cannot be put in words. Cinema. It’s beautiful, melancholic, and hopeful.
Amazing stuff.
I really was into the premise of this when I heard about it.
It doesn’t stick to any of the modes of presentation it tries to use. It’s so inconsistent and doesn’t make any sense, it’s not a documentary, it’s not found footage.
It’s so afraid we might not get it we get literal lore dumps.
It used AI for the most stupid parts possible and for no good reason.
There was a germ of a good idea but every single decision made in the process of executing on it was a bad one.
