A movie bookended by Funkadelic and TV on the Radio about a black pop culture journalist who likes Radiohead, and it did absolutely nothing for me. Huh.
“Dina, Simone” a rare example of a work of art in the diegetic reality of a movie that’s better than the movie it’s in.
From Intervals.
Akerman’s last film before her suicide, No Home Movie (2015) is an intimate portrait of her mother, Natalia, a Holocaust survivor confined to her Brussels apartment by ill health. Taking the form of several conversations between mother and daughter, the pair talk about everything from family - Natalia’s remembrances of life in pre-war Poland, the lustrousness of her father’s moustache - to the now-shared inequities of aging and quotidian aspects of Chantal’s life away from home. In this…
For all the dicks wagging about, NYMPHOMANIAC is less a film explicitly about fucking than a knottily plotted collage essay, Scheherazade meets Sontag, that von Trier uses the central theme of fucking to launch into sometimes semi-autobiographical digressions and footnotes on Edgar Allen Poe, (passingly)how anti-Zionism isn’t anti-Semitism, Bach’s polyphony, the Fibonacci sequence, feminism, fly fishing, Freud, and the split in morality defined by the Catholic and Orthodox churches. Some way through, Joe forcefully states that sexuality is the most…
This review may contain spoilers. I can handle the truth.
The Anti-Mulholland Drive. Where Lynch's ode to film noir is porous, open to interpretation, everything in Chinatown seems to refer to something else concrete inside of the film. It’s probably possible for particularly enterprising detectives or veterans of the genre to suss out the film’s conclusion before it gets there. There’s no Sherlockian genius to it, all the clues are there, foreshadowed on screen.
More than the murder and conspiracy at the heart of the film, the death of Evelyn…
