A shit show clearly born of cold, hard experience. Do we ever truly know why we are left? Trite is right per this formula: woman mourns the demise of her relationship slowly and in secret, finally picks up and leaves, man runs around in a panic. Irrational, ungrateful, out of nowhere! His wife's all-consuming dissatisfaction is news to him. It's so ugly it's rapturous. Berlin in decay, earsplitting screaming, viscosity. The endless variations of the iris-blue dress, nearly a uniform.…
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Picnic at Hanging Rock 1975
A glorious, torporious mood poem, a direct ancestor of Sofia Coppola. White-clad young women, faces glancing off of angled mirrors, trapped in eternal afternoon. Girls drowsing beneath towering geography, girls climbing atop altars of stoney indifference, girls tortured for reminding old women too much of themselves. Mrs. Appleyard, a sadist, is clearly famished. She refuses to eat and swallows up girls with a cannibalistic hypocrisy. St. Valentine and girlish obsession—I mean, poetry—offset the Gothic foray into the bush. Subconscious colonial anxieties charge the idealized (dominated) land, a void without history until it swallows four precious Botticelli angels whole.
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8½ 1963
Fellini's surrealist circus hit its stride with Juliet of the Spirits, but 8 1/2's jaunty exploration of creative crisis had similarly unsettling moments. Despite being a distinctly masculinized cautionary tale (perhaps Guido would have had more to say if he lived by a coherent value system outside of workaholism and serial womanizing) there was a sensitive acknowledgement that despite one's theoretical adulthood, there is no escaping the foggy damage of religious childhood. Love the continuous shot by the spring and the liquid liner adorning the eyes of each member of his metaphorical harem.
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