Hypnotic melancholy.
The kind of film where - if you allow it - your breathing slows, the words and sounds and images wash over you, every bodily system seems to be shutting down because it’s not needed; you’re here now. Stasis.
“That green color. It’s growing larger.”
*
(In hindsight, disappointed my perfume choice of the evening was not Guerlain’s Shalimar. Another time.)
A reverse move in modern film; it’s something - text as fractured subtexts and subtext as 1000 symbols. I don’t mean this as a positive in this case, though I did (strongly?) like this overall.
I don’t require, expect, or even necessarily enjoy “text” as the primary organizing force in a film. I also don’t believe sides need to be chosen in moral/ethical quandaries to make good art. (In fact, art is usually not the place, right?) Anyway, what sides?…
As of now, my favorite film ever.
Perfect depravity. Your lover meets you there. Fuck everyone else. A droning soundtrack to set the mood. Ambient exploitation. A 12-inch dick. Is your brain ok?
I honestly don’t think art can go higher.
One of my most incredible film experiences of the last few months.
Listen, if people are awarding Skinamarink five stars, then surely I can do the same for this [far superior film].
I might be leaning too far into “relatable” territory, but the mood-moments captured here are sublime; I really didn’t know an artist could possibly work their way into this headspace this effectively. This made me think of many of my favorite moments of various vacations, those unreal minutes…
Even worse upon rewatch. It pains me to admit I find this worthy of a half-star, apologies to the many mutuals I respect rating this a full five. It’s just overwhelmingly hideous looking (by which I mean terribly shot/awful cinematography/whatever), with overwrought and hackneyed themes to boot. “Disturbing” only in the sense that I get absolutely nothing out of it.
Without exaggeration, possibly the worst movie I’ve ever seen.
Pardon me if I believe filmmakers are better served (and better serve us) by staying the hell off Twitter.
I have never felt more pessimistic about the modern state of cultural discourse.
Burn me like a fucking s’more too.
