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Adagio in D Minor Intensifies
“I think it’ll be beautiful... Adagio in D Minor intensifies. The Icarus II, flying across the vastness of space, a beacon of light amongst the darkness, on a mission to save all of humanity. Yeah, a rewatch of Sunshine solidified it as my favorite. Everything there is in my love for film exists in Sunshine. No, I’m not afraid.”
And So Perceval Rides On
_My son, soon you will be a knight_ _God willing; I am sure I’m right._ _If you find, near or at a distance_ _a lady who requires assistance_ _or a distressed and troubled maid_ _who tells you she has need of aid_ _with her request you must concur:_ _all honor lies in helping her._ “It was the season when trees break into leaf, when fields and woods turn green, and the birds, in their sweet idiom, sing softly in the morning, bringing joy to all alive.” Young Perceval, locked away in a castle all of his young life, doting on a mother who keeps him unawares of a whole world outside their walls. His ambitious quest to be the knight beyond all knights, to be a worthy man. A worthy man…. The story of the Holy Grail, and the Grail Knight driven to the bounds of madness in its awe. A tale of the pitfalls of both arrogance and ignorance. A journey to become the loyal knight of Arthur, the great king of Albion. _‘A knight’s sword has two cutting edges: do you know why? It should be understood, truly, that one edge is for the defence of Holy Church, while the other should administer earthly justice, protecting Christian people and upholding justice without deception or self-interest. But I tell you this: Holy Church’s edge is broken, while the earthly edge cuts indeed! Every knight hacks and hews the poor and holds them to ransom, though they’ve done him no wrong at all! So that edge of the blade is very sharp, and a knight who carries such a sword is deceiving God! And if he fails to mend his ways, the gate of paradise will be closed to him. God keep you, dear friend,’ the hermit said, ‘from such a sword, which would condemn your soul.’_ A chorus brings us into the world of King Arthur, but not a world of grand landscapes, a Camelot basked in mist, an England transforming into something new, full of glistening magic; rather, a world of artifice, all metal and plastic, painted landscapes and bright overhead lights. Costumes so colorful. Sounds as made by the chorus. Sets repeated as scenes repeat as Perceval’s story continues on and on, lessons taught but never truly learned. For a courtly society restricted in its ways, and knights so vehemently bound to the honors of chivalry, the Holy Grail will forever be an unattainable prize. All in that pursuit of something, something higher than just winning in tourneys, saving damsels, besting knights… And so Perceval rides on, to the next castle, to the next chapter. Rohmer's Perceval le Gallois is truly a magical picture.
Gods Come and Go...
_The Pyramids! When did they rear_ _Their sombre bulk to Time's stern gaze?_ _Caust estimate the thought —the care_ _The lives condemned—the flight of days—_ _That went to consecrate the pile_ _Where Egypt's tyrants now repose,_ _The sentient serpents of the Nile,_ _At whose command the phantoms rose?_ “It is the cry of an army that loves its victorious commander.” “I do not even know how I won it.” “I have seen many temples in many lands, with many great and small statues in them. But I have never met any Gods.” Monumental. The wailing cries of a land of the dead. A land scorched by the gods above. An Egypt breathing its last, as the New Kingdom takes the plunge into darkness. This isn’t a land of color, of beauty, of happiness, but one of dust, and death, and destruction. White sands with white temples, palaces, places left to age and decay; lonely monoliths amongst a desolate landscape. The wide, grand sweeping shots of the desert are so lonely, the camera so intimately following a man who is so small against it. Claustrophobically so. Grand in the political machinations, but only a mere mortal man in the scope of the greater world. Prince Ramses, son of the God-Pharaoh Mer-amen-Ramses XII, is that man. A man torn between sacred duty and love, spending time with friends and spending time with councils. A man looking forward, so far ahead of his time, too far for priests to trust. The state is itself torn between the power of the pharaoh, the power of the nomarchs and the power of the priesthood. Chaos in the face of so many existential threats from beyond Egypt’s borders. Mercenaries want money. Assyria grows in its power. And money, the wealth of the treasury, that which all men quarrel over. The rich fight over it, while the poor downtrodden peasantry are drowned out in the desert. “I have more regiments than there will be votes against me.” Drums beating, the Pharaoh’s army mustering proudly, waiting for their pharaoh, stewing in the bright sun of Amun-Ra. Another war just across the desert. A civil war amongst the many wars. An open doorway filled with darkness, with shadows, with uncertainty of what fate will befall Egypt. “Has humanity at all ever broken loose from the myths? Every man has eyes and all his senses to perceive that the world is dead, cold and unending, and he has never yet seen a God, nor brought to light the existence of such from empirical necessity.” Kings come and go. Priests come and go. Gods come and go… Has the desert ever felt so cold? What it is to be human is eternal. Faraon is a truly extraordinary picture. “I turn my face away from this accursed people... And may darkness fall on the land…”
Are We Still Human Beings?
“What are we? Are we still human beings?” Claustrophobia. The walls themselves are listening to all. Where we live is warm and inviting when we have control, but what happens when the lights won’t turn on? When the doors have all been unlocked? When someone, or someones, has been inside your home? When the regime you work for is purging members and you’re on that list of those under suspicion? Deputy minister Ludvik and his wife Anna, as drunk as can be, return home from a state party, a party that was full of party members laughing and drinking and not worrying. They return to a home that is dark. Too dark. Too quiet. Too empty. Today’s a special day too; it’s Ludvik and Anna’s anniversary. So many years of being married. So many years of following in Ludvik’s ambitions. As the walls of their home seem to creep together, the shadows in the corner driving them further into paranoia, the true emotions of the two explode. Disagreements and vitriol flung at one another all night long as Anna pushes further and further against what the State can tolerate. Who the hell can you trust? When the whole of The Ear is listening in, waiting, biding its time. Will you be arrested? Will you be killed? Will you be rewarded? The Ear is so simple, yet so exquisitely perfected in its production. A domestic dramatic chamber picture of sorts as a man and woman exasperate and explode under pressure and intense paranoia. “But you didn’t do anything?”
In Search of Greatness
_And all for shame he shrank, while yet the Green Knight spake—_ _Then in this fashion first lament the knight did make;_ _“Covetousness, accurst be thou, and cowardice,_ _In virtue’s stead ye bring both villainy and vice—”_ _With that he caught the knot, and loosed the lace so bright,_ _Giveth the girdle green again to the Green Knight,_ _“Lo! there the false thing take, a foul fate it befall,_ _Fear of thy blow, it taught me cowardice withal,_ _With custom covetous to league me, and thus wrong_ _Largesse and loyalty, which do to knights belong._ _Faulty am I, and false, to fear hath been a prey._ _From treachery and untruth is sorrow born alway,_ _and care—_ _So here I own to thee_ _That faithless did I fare;_ _Take thou thy will of me,_ _Henceforth I’ll be more ’ware!”_ “Is it wrong to want greatness for you?” Mist and magic. What story will you tell? The lands of King Arthur. Lands where magic is waning, mystery is dying, and the onset of a new era is just over the hills. The halls of Camelot grow colder and colder. The Knights of the Round Table, grown fat and lazy and bored, sitting on stories long told. “I’ve got time. I’ve got lots of time.” Life is fleeting for the mortal man, doomed to seek glory else be condemned to wallow in judgement and scorn. To be a knight, a true knight, is the determination of Gawain, nephew, perhaps even son to Arthur and Morgana; yet, laziness prevails in his own ambitions. By witchcraft, a creature is brought forth the Round Table on Christmas day, a creature that calls itself The Green Knight. Face me, he says, strike a blow and thou shall receive in turn one year hence. All cower save Gawain, seeing the opportunity to make a name for himself, severing The Green Knight’s head from its body. One year to prove himself a knight. One year to answer The Green Knight’s challenge. One year to spend thinking of everything else. A weeks long quest will challenge every last aspect of Gawain. Failure after failure after failure, and yet, push on towards the end he does. “Whilst we're off looking for red, in comes green. Red is the color of lust, but green is what lust leaves behind—in heart, in womb. Green is what is left when ardor fades, when passion dies, when we die, too. When you go your footprints will fill with grass; moss will cover over your tombstone. And as the sun rises, green shall spread over all, in all its shades and hues. The verdigris will overtake your swords and your coins and your battlements, and, try as you might, all you hold dear will succumb to it. Your skin, your bones. Your virtue.” Nature moves into a world where magic flees. A chapel at the end of the world, overgrown in vines, green of rot and life and yellow in the rising sun on another Christmas morne. The domain of The Green Knight. A holy place, a place where Christianity and Celtic Paganism collide. Gawain and The Green Knight meet. Dreams and nightmares—a future thrust into his mind. A future of him, king and assaulted on all sides. In the end, acceptance. An acceptance of whatever fate is to befall Gawain. The true mantle of honor placed upon his weary shoulders. A game to be won. “There… Now I'm ready, I'm ready now.” Fuck me, I absolutely adore what David Lowery does in his inversion of Sir Gawain and The Green Knight. A painterly masterpiece of morality. Dev Patel is incredible. Just so fucking gorgeous. “Well done, my brave knight.”
Trapped In Your Own Past
_Drive boy, dog boy, dirty, numb angel boy_ _In the doorway boy, she was a lipstick boy_ _She was a beautiful boy and tears boy_ _And all in your inner space boy_ _You had hand girls boy and steel boy_ _You had chemicals boy, I've grown so close to you, boy_ _And you just groan boy, she said, "Come over, come over"_ _She smiled at you, boy_ “Choose unfulfilled promise and wishing you'd done it all differently. Choose never learning from your own mistakes. Choose watching history repeat itself. Choose the slow reconciliation towards what you can get, rather than what you always hoped for. Settle for less and keep a brave face on it. Choose disappointment and choose losing the ones you love, then as they fall from view, a piece of you dies with them until you can see that one day in the future, piece by piece, they will all be gone and there'll be nothing left of you to call alive or dead. Choose your future, Veronika. Choose life.” “Nostalgia! That's why you're here. You're a tourist in your own youth.” Guilt and love and betrayal. Emptiness in the soul, in the heart, in the eyes. Twenty years flown by, and the dream is over. Over. Over. Dead. Dead. DEAD! The same group of mates all trapped by still being alive. All clinging to a past that was just as hellish as the present. What did growing up even matter? Everyone’s better off/no-one’s better off. Heroin is still haunting all of their lives. The highs. The deaths. One and the same. Addiction still rears its ugly head, only in a more subtle, yet no less dangerous way. Spud still on smack. Sick Boy on coke. Begbie on violence. And Mark, Mark on something even more destructive. The nostalgic pull of home, of those mates, of it all, pulls so fucking hard. Still feeding into each other’s vices. Still incapable of being completely honest with each other. Still needing to one up and fuck each other’s lives, purposefully or not. Desperate to reconnect, to continue that childhood friendship, but all so far gone from then. It’s too late to not worry anymore, but what time left is there to worry? What is life after all? Just dance it away. Danny Boyle, you fucking legend for delivering this even more beautiful, even more harrowing, continuation of Trainspotting. “Had it all before us, didn't we? Had it all still to come.”
It's Almost Time to go Home
_There liveth none under the sunne,_ _That knows what to make of the man in the moone._ “I want to go home.” It’s almost time to go home. Three years of slaving away for Lunar Industries. Sam Bell’s family is waiting for him on Earth. Three years have gone by. It’s almost time to go home. God fucking damn it. Moon is fine, and I hate saying that. Ambitious as hell. There is such a fantastic idea nestled in here, and Sam Rockwell gives the whole film his all; but none of it matters when the ideas are too big for the director to properly tackle. It plays its hand almost immediately, and then waffles around until it ends. It’s not psychologically stimulating enough, it’s not horrifying or haunting enough, it’s not depressingly isolationist enough. It’s just not enough of anything for me. Clint Mansell’s score is beautiful though, and carries a lot of the movie on its back. “You really think they give a shit about us?”
I Will Learn to Survive
_And I don't cry for yesterday, there's an ordinary world_ _Somehow I have to find_ _And as I try to make my way to the ordinary world_ _I will learn to survive_ “There were so many dead—infected and non-infected alike. Because they are alike. Every skull is a set of thoughts. These sockets saw and these jaws spoke and swallowed. This is a monument to them. A temple.” “Nothing is—no one is. It's just us.” The Bone Temple. An ossuary: a place of death, a place of remembrance, a place of life. Statues of bone. A monolith of skulls. The collective history of so many lives looking out. A place of science and faith, intersecting, colliding. Where 28 Years Later was a film about history, the past and the future colliding together in the present, all focused on Spike, a boy becoming a man; The Bone Temple is a film about order and chaos as funneled through Dr. Ian Kelson and Sir Lord Jimmy Crystal. Dual lives, one an older man and the other younger, both born before the End, both having spent more than a lifetime grappling with the world they exist in. To Jimmy, the infected are something beyond the order of Earth. An element of chaos, demons sent forth by Satan itself. An infernal legion to be feared. Fear grips the heart so, so tightly. Lashing out in that fear, twisting into something evil. To Ian, the infected are people, condemned to an existence of anguish and pain. Sickness that can be combated. Hope that can be found in eyes, red in rage. A tale of saving the human soul. “The Devil's always up for making a deal.” The Bone Temple is a far more formal film, yet so much more brilliant for that fact. Trading the hectic chaos of Spike’s story, filmed as chaotic as it is, for a dichotomic picture, still and quiet as needed. So much of this film lives in its ability to let things breathe. “Moon.”
When Hollywood Meets the Egyptian Creation Myth
_After a time Osiris asked Horus what he held to be the most noble of all things. Horus replied, "To avenge one's father and mother for evil done to them.”_ “I chose none of this! I can't undo what's been done! What power do I have?” Gold runs through their veins. 8 feet tall gods walking amongst mortals. The Egyptian myths of creation, all mashed together haphazardly and funneled down to a bombastic Hollywood film. The battle between an uncle and a nephew, two gods, Set and Horus, fighting to be king of a mortal land that is terrified of them/in adoration of them. The sun god Ra, sailing on the Mandjet across space above the mortal land and above the Duat, locked in an eternal battle with Apophis, the great serpent of chaos. And through it all, love. The love of a mortal boy, Bek, a carefree thief who doesn’t believe in anything but himself ;and a mortal girl, Zaya, a true believer, a girl dead and trapped to eternity in the Duat, a land that Bek will travel the ends of the world to save her from. Love, the strongest of all emotions, across the gods and man. Who needs character development when you have love? You all are fucking weak. Gods of Egypt is insane, and I wish I had watched it even earlier. Earnestly made, over-the-top cinema hearkening back to that gratuitous Golden age of Hollywood in all of the best and worst ways imaginable. A cast pumping out the whole gamut of performances, chewing on such ridiculous dialogue, throwing out anything they want. Absolute spectacle to behold: every foot of film dragged through layer upon layer of computer graphics, used as a beautiful tool. Not a single smirk towards its subjects, and it’s all the more beautiful for it. “I don’t know if I’m strong enough.” “Then become stronger.”
One Man Against an Empire of Men
_And he lifted up his eyes to his disciples and said, “Blessed are the poor, because yours is the kingdom of God. Blessed are those who are hungry now, because you will be satisfied. Blessed are those who weep now, because you will laugh. Blessed are you when people hate you, and when they exclude you and revile you and spurn your name as evil on account of the Son of Man. Rejoice in that day, and leap for joy, for behold, your reward is great in heaven. For their fathers used to do the same things to the prophets.”_ “We both seek the same thing: freedom! Only our methods differ.” “What is truth?” What is one man against an empire of men? What is one god against an empire of gods? Men are trampled under the pursuit of legacy and destiny. A line of Roman soldiers unleash a volley of javelins at priests on the hallowed steps of a temple, all in the name of Empire. Empire. An Empire of cruelty and laziness, extending its reach far beyond its means. In Judea, it’s the struggle against tyranny. The struggle that costs everything. False messiahs and corrupt kings and lazy prefects. A boy is born, prophesied to be something greater than any human: the son of God. Cursed to live an existence of worship and revilement. A lonely soul wandering the loneliest road imaginable towards his bitter fated end. A rock in a sea of faith. What is King of Kings but the humanization of Christ; the capture of how the people reacted to the push and pull of Pilate and Herod and Tiberius et al. The violence and anger of a people matched by the peace and love of their neighbors, all united in their struggle for recognition. Miklós Rózsa’s score is fucking legendary, marrying beautifully to the depth (and gratuitous split diopter shots) that Nicholas Ray injects into what could have been just another Biblical epic. “I am with you always, even unto the end of the world.”
I Love You, Forever
_And you, my father, there on the sad height,_ _Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray._ _Do not go gentle into that good night._ _Rage, rage against the dying of the light._ “We used to look up at the sky and wonder at our place in the stars. Now we just look down, and worry about our place in the dirt.” “I heard you got shut down for refusing to drop bombs from the stratosphere onto starving people.” “When they realized killing other people wasn’t a long term solution they needed us back.” Our Earth is dying. The seas are toxic. The lands are drying up. The crops are failing. The air is getting harder and harder to breathe. Humanity has already plunged into damnation. A future that is built entirely on hope and uncertainty is all to hold onto. “Once you're a parent, you're the ghost of your children's future.” A mission to another galaxy. To another time. Joseph Cooper. A father, an astronaut, a man so desperate to save his children, risks it all on the most astronomical of chances. A team of likeminded individuals follow. The Endurance is launched into space with the goal of securing the permanent home for mankind. A permanent home that lays in wait on the other side of a wormhole just out of Saturn’s orbit. A wormhole placed by something far greater than man. Another chance at life. “They didn’t bring us here at all. We brought ourselves.” A system in orbit around both a star and a supermassive black hole. Gargantua. Could a place such as this truly be humanity’s future? Or merely a single step on a fate far beyond any of their comprehension. “Love is the one thing we're capable of perceiving that transcends time and space.” What can man hold on to in the face of Gargantua but love. Love, love, love. A love that transcends space. A love that transcends time itself, echoing through eternity, saving the only species capable of it. Humanity’s home now in space stations in the stars, moving outwards, moving forward, always moving. The legacy of the brave members of the Lazarus mission. And somewhere out there, millions and millions of miles away, Dr. Amelia Brand is alone with a seed of humanity she believes might be the only way forward. A colony all alone in another galaxy. The longer I think about Interstellar, the more I love it. That final act is sublime perfection. Gorgeous, absolutely and insanely gorgeous photography, with a score that does stand the test of time. ‘Cornfield Chase’ alone is such a beautiful piece. I want more. “I love you, forever. You hear me? I love you forever. And I’m coming back.”
Something New Born of Something Old
_As you curve back around, the light house fast approaches. The air trembles as it pushes out from both sides of the lighthouse and then re-forms, ever questing, forever sampling, rising high only to come low yet again, and finally circling like a question mark so you can bear witness to your own immolation: a shape huddled there, leaking light. What a sad figure, sleeping there, dissolving there. A green flame, a distress signal, an opportunity. Are you still soaring? Are you still dying or dead? You can’t tell anymore._ “Then, as a psychologist, I think you're confusing suicide with self-destruction. Almost none of us commit suicide, and almost all of us self-destruct. In some way, in some part of our lives. We drink, or we smoke, we destabilize the good job... and a happy marriage. But these aren't decisions, they're... they're impulses.” Eternity. The melancholy of not knowing; or perhaps the melancholy of knowing too much. How much of being yourself is in yourself? How much needs to change before you’re no longer yourself? Self-destruction. Self-consumption. Cells, constantly growing. In cancer, constantly growing, abnormally. Not by choice, but by nature, by sheer random nature. Random. Chaos. The chaos of nature. A meteor/an angel soars across the sky, crashing into a swamp in the middle of nowhere, piercing a lighthouse, a beacon of safety for wayward souls. The Shimmer is born. A zone of light, constantly moving, refracting in on itself. Psychedelic hues of blues, greens, purples, yellows, reds, bouncing off the sunlight. Inside of The Shimmer, all changes. All collapses, rebuilds, regenerates, evolves, merges. Adapts. Learns… DNA. Behavior. Identity. Pasts. Humans are creatures of their emotions. Fear. Hate. Paranoia. Obsession. Love. The journey into the unknown, into the heart of… lightness. Teams of soldiers, teams of men, have gone into The Shimmer, missions all lemons, succumbing to death, succumbing to madness. Things in nature, lashing out towards what they can’t understand themselves. Things moving under the skin, driving the madness deeper. All trapped into watching everyone disappear. A team of scientists is sent in, five women all experts in their own fields, all victims of circumstances outside of their control. Some call it a ‘suicide’ mission. But the reality is so very different. A quiet doom as they trudge deeper and deeper into their own destruction. The self is the most dangerous thing to carry along. All trapped into watching everyone disappear. “I thought I was a man. I had a life. People called me Kane. And now I'm not so sure. If I wasn't Kane, what was I? Was I you? Were you me?” _It is despair that nothing cannot be_ _Flares in the mind and leaves a smoky mark_ _Of dread._ _Look upward. Neither firm nor free,_ _Purposeless matter hovers in the dark._ “It means the cell doesn't grow old, it becomes immortal. Keeps dividing, doesn't die. They say aging is a natural process, but it's actually a fault in our genes." The Lighthouse at the heart of The Shimmer. Paradise. The place of impact. The domain of change. A temple shooting to the sky, surrounded by spires of glass, trees of light themselves. The ‘something’ that lives at the center. The place that all who enter The Shimmer hope to get to, must get to, to discover the answer to all of the whys, the whats, the hows. To be so powerless, so scared, so insignificant in the face of something truly from another world. Something entirely alien, unknown, incomprehensible. An angel, a demon, a monster, a mirror of one’s self. A dance of change. A duel of chaos. Only two living things have emerged from The Shimmer. Human in all appearances. Can a copy of a human and a cellularly changed human continue a love from before when both were wholly different? Something new born out of the destruction of the old. “It will be in all of us.” “It's not like us... it's unlike us. I don't know what it wants, or if it wants, but it'll grow until it encompasses everything. Our bodies and our minds will be fragmented into their smallest parts until not one part remains… Annihilation.”
Rage. Hatred. Vengeance.
_Munu við ofstríð alls til lengi_ _konur ok karlar kvikvir fœðask!_ _Vit skulum okkrum aldri slíta,_ _Sigurðr, saman! Søkkstu, gýgjarkyn!_ “This twisted spirit will ride again... It wields a thirsty blade.” Fatalism. Death begets death begets death. A kingdom built on blood and bones, on rape and slavery. The Nornir weave the threads of fate for all, and none are safe from their prophecies, instead forced to accept the course of destiny. Cursed with an eternity of shame for a life taken, stolen from him, young Prince Amleth is thrust upon a course of life filled with nothing but primal animalistic emotion. Feral. Hungry. Bloody. A life amongst the berserkers, sailing up and down the rivers of Europe, pillaging, looting, killing, killing, killing. Fulfilling a legacy shown to him by his father, his father’s father, and so on, and so on. A family history built on the ruination of others. Rage. Hatred. Vengeance. “I will avenge you, father. I will save you, mother. I will kill you, Fjölnir.” “Remember for whom you shed your last teardrop.” Letting go of the past is impossible, whether or not the Fates themselves have dictated Amleth’s path forward. Olga’s love enters his life, something he had not considered. A woman of the Rus, of the Birch Forest. A slave that he cannot possibly see himself with. Flights of violence across nights, wielding a blade of legend, leaving corpses in his wake. His hatred so strong. Until finally, that chance to save his mother, to be that hero he believes himself. And to see it all collapse in front of him. Herself a victim of his mighty father's conquests. And Amleth unable to steer himself forward. Vengeance only craves more and more death. Rage. Hatred. Vengeance. “I will avenge you, father. I will save you, mother. I will kill you, Fjölnir.” At the Gates of Hel, fiery and explosive, a lake of magma, warrior against warrior, man against man, uncle against nephew, Óðinn against Freyr, everything bared and nothing hidden. A fight for far more than just kingdom, just land, just the right to rule. A fight to the death for Amleth’s children, a fight to the death for the death of Fjölnir’s family. A fight between two killers. Rage. Hatred. Vengeance. “I will avenge you, father. I will save you, mother. I will kill you, Fjölnir.” A quest of revenge finished. One family is destroyed as another is born. Amleth’s rise with the valkyrja to Valhǫll. A woman sailed away to Orkney, their prodigy to continue his legacy. Will there only be more blood? Or perhaps, something different? “The thread that binds us can never be broken.” The Northman is myth-made-reality. Simple. Terribly simple. But done so, so beautifully. So poetically. Sure, I would’ve loved for it to be even weirder, and dip its toes even deeper into the supernatural world, but for what Eggers was able to give us even with studio interference, I loved it all. Anya Taylor Joy is so pretty… “For where your path of ashes ends, another begins.”
Do It and Set Yourself Free
“All she wants from you is that you walk beside her and lay your hand on her shoulder. That's all she's longing for. But for her, it's vital. But all your problems can be solved by a simple gesture. Do it and set yourself free.” Do it and set yourself free. Do it and accept the loneliness that comes with it. What gives a piece of art value? What gives a human any sort of value? What’s real and what isn’t? What is life and love but a game that all of us play roles in? The man and the woman. The writer and the mother. The artist and the appreciator. What appear to be two strangers meet up after a book signing, awkwardly talking at one another amongst copies of statues. Two souls wandering the streets of a small Italian town in Tuscany, sparring with words, debating everything, debating life and living itself. The quick familiarity between the two is interesting though. As the day goes on, things become only more and more intimate. Revisiting a place where young couples marry each other, it all starts crashing down. Two souls playing at being strangers, but two lovers so estranged as to hate one another, pretending to love. Everyone is always performing. “We're not worms, right? We're not supposed to be simple.” This was my first Abbas Kiarostami, and wow, what an incredible picture. Funny until the reality and gravity of what's on display starts clicking in your head; turning this into a portrait of raw emotion. “What difference does it make?”
I Origins: Wolverine
I love the human eye, an organ as fascinating scientifically as it is mesmerizing to behold. So, for about 5% of the film I was happy as can be just looking at gorgeous photography of the human eye. That’s about all that made me happy with this sanctimonious trash. Anyway, what if a character said this, and it was the sincere capture of the plot of the film. “What if eyes really are windows to the soul?” lmao holy fucking shit Imagine detonating a bomb and destroying the entire second half of your already struggling soft sci-fi romantic mess of a movie. Well, the good news is you don’t have to imagine it, you can see it happen in real time watching I Origins. A film where r/im14andthisisdeep was the source of the script. A protagonist fulfilling the angry “I HATE GOD” scientist trope the entire runtime. The most basic ass science versus faith story. The Radiohead needle drop at the literal final three minutes of the movie is the biggest defibrillator hit imaginable. And if this shit couldn’t possibly get any more stupid, there is a post-credits scene featuring an array of historical figures being iris matched to living people, and of course, every despot of the last century is there.
Ashes to Ashes, Stardust to Stardust
_I had a dream, which was not all a dream._ _The bright sun was extinguish'd, and the stars_ _Did wander darkling in the eternal space,_ _Rayless, and pathless, and the icy earth_ _Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air;_ _Morn came and went—and came, and brought no day,_ _And men forgot their passions in the dread_ _Of this their desolation; and all hearts_ _Were chill'd into a selfish prayer for light:_ “Who are you?” “Who am I? At the end of time, a moment will come where just one man remains. Then the moment will pass. The man will be gone. There will be nothing to show that we were ever here... but stardust. The last man, alone with God. Am I that man?” “My God. My God—Pinbacker?” “Not your God. Mine.” Fuck. Me. Stardust. Heav’n and Hell. Light and Dark. Life and Death. All exist in harmony with each other. The Icarus II flies towards our Sun, carrying the hope of mankind on the backs of its meager crew. A voyage into doom. A descent into damnation. A mission to kick start our dying Sun, our Helios, our Light. A mission to save humanity from a calamity that they are not responsible for causing. Mere specks of matter on a scale so infinitesimal, yet it is that drive for hope that makes humanity special. And that willingness to sacrifice life itself. A sacrifice for a better, beautiful, sunny tomorrow. “Kaneda! What do you see? Kaneda! What do you see? Kaneda! Kaneda!” Our Sun. Our God. Our Sun sings. Our Sun whispers. Our Sun inspires. Our Sun destroys. To stand in the presence of something as magnificent, as incredible, as beautiful, as terrifying as our Sun; standing outside of space and time itself; a million years of history behind, and a million years of future ahead. To look into its eye and find peace. God, have I ever mentioned how much I love movies? Sunshine is a film that repeatedly pounds into me that love of movies. Cosmic folk horror. So massive in scope. Beyond gorgeous in composition. John Murphy’s score is so fucking beautiful. “So, if you wake up one morning and it’s a particularly beautiful day, you’ll know we made it.” “Ashes to Ashes... Stardust to Stardust.”
You're Going To Reap Just What You Sow
_You're going to reap just what you sow_ _You're going to reap just what you sow_ _You're going to reap just what you sow_ _You're going to reap just what you sow_ “There's final hits and final hits. What kind was this to be?” Living in the moment. ‘Til you can’t fucking take it any more. Blood, shit, and heroin. Trainspotting fucking bangs, man. Electric as all hell. Manic as a dream. Fueled by an undercurrent of the hell that is urban abandonment. Casting those deemed lowlifes to the cyclical nature of addiction. A group of mates all grabbing for something to keep them going. Smiling towards each other, pressuring each other to have more fun, while all the time encouraging each other to get better, like a game. All like a game. All falling down the same holes, time and time again. To live. To die. Who cares if it’s all in pursuit of that ultimate high? There’s time to worry about all of that later. It’s not like you have to grow up. GROW UP. GROW UP. GROW UP. GROW UP! Mark Renton is one of the best fucking characters ever conceived, in no small part due to Ewan McGregor’s performance. Charismatic as hell. Tragic as hell. Screaming in bed. Screaming. The pain captured in his eyes as he smiles away, shooting up, saying this time will be the last time. This time will be the last time. It might cost everything that makes you you, but with 14 thousand pounds stolen from your mates, maybe, just maybe, life can turn around. “One thousand years from now there’ll be no guys and no girls, just wankers… sounds great to me.” What a harrowingly gorgeous picture, god. “That beats any fucking cock in the world.”
Rage Against It All!
_Seven–six–eleven–five–nine-an'-twenty mile to-day—_ _Four–eleven–seventeen–thirty-two the day before—_ _Boots–boots–boots–boots–moving up an' down again!_ _There's no discharge in the war!_ _Don't–don't–don't–don't–look at what's in front of you_ _Boots–boots–boots–boots–movin' up an' down again;_ _Men–men–men–men–men go mad with watchin' em_ _Count–count–count–count–the bullets in the bandoliers_ _If–your–eyes–drop–they will get atop of you!_ _Boots--boots--boots--boots--moving up an' down again—_ _There's no discharge in the war!_ _'Taint–so–bad–by–day because o' company_ _But night–brings–long–strings–o' forty thousand million_ _Boots–boots–boots–boots–moving up an' down again_ _I–'ave–marched–six–weeks in Hell and certify_ _It–is–not–fire–devils, dark, or anything_ _But boots–boots–boots–boots–movin' up an' down again_ _Try–try–try–try–to think o' something different—_ _Oh–my–God–keep–me from going lunatic!_ _Boots–boots–boots–boots–moving up an' down again!_ _There's no discharge in the war!_ Rage! Rage against the past! Rage against the coming tide! Fight! Fight! FIGHT! Fight for a future that doesn’t exist, ignoring the present that’s right in front of your eyes, holding on to a past that is filled with nothing but horror. Myth made manifest through repeated drilling. Remembering that past out of fear. Forcing that past into the young. Draw. LOOSE! Draw. LOOSE! Draw. LOOSE! Thud! goes the arrow into the target. Thud! goes the arrow into the infected. Thud! goes the arrow into the man. Don’t worry—it will get easier. They’re not people. They don’t have souls. Every kill is in that past. Don’t worry. Don’t worry… “Aw, look! The angel! You remember the first time you showed me the angel, Dad? We drove near here with the car. We walked until we spotted it rising over the treetops. You said it would stand like this forever, like the pyramids or Stonehenge so when you look at it you're seeing into the future. Do you remember that? Do you? I couldn't have been more than seven or eight. ‘Us two are real life time travelers,’ you said. Fallen into the future. And I got... I got scared! Because I thought you were being serious and we really had. How many hundreds of years have we fallen this time? Is it thousands or more?” A voyage into the unknown, carrying a mother's pains into hell. The wailing of the damned filling the air. Finding peace in a world of unending torment. Finding peace in a place of so much death. Finding peace through that which all must hold onto: love and compassion. As messy and confusing as love is. The love of a father for his son. The love of a mother for her son. The love for an infant birthed into chaos. The love of a child for a world that keeps on turning. Finding peace in the now—the only certainty there is. “There are many kinds of death. Some are better than others. The best are peaceful where we leave each other in love.” “Have faith.”
I Don't Want a Hero, I Want You
_There is a lonely train,_ _Called the 3:10 to Yuma._ _The pounding of the wheels,_ _Is more like a mournful sigh._ _There's a legend and there's a rumor._ _When you take the 3:10 to Yuma,_ _You can see the ghosts,_ _Of outlaws go riding by,_ _In the sky,_ _'Way up high._ “You shouldn’t get so scared, Dan. You might make a bad move.” The Sun shines down, scorching the Earth. If only it would rain, no one would have to die. If only it would rain, the ranchers around Bisbee could be happy. If only it would rain… A stage is held up by a gang. A man dies. The gang’s leader is captured. And the chase begins. Helplessness. That feeling of being unable to do anything in the face of terror, of violence, of evil. It grips the heart. The chance of death in fighting back is too great to ignore. How brave can a man be when those are the odds they face? It’s only a few steps out the front door to the waiting train. Only a handful of guns pointed at Dan Evans, between him and $200. Enough money to turn a dying farm around. Enough money to make his family proud of him. Glenn Ford and Van Heflin are incredible in 3:10 to Yuma, in itself an incredible work of noirish Western, blending cynicism against hopefulness to an incredible end. “You have to do something, you can't just stand by and watch.” “I don’t want a hero, I want you.”
Robbed of a Ridley Epic
“Is this your god? Killer of children? What kind of fanatics worship such a god?” At such a massive scope, it lacks in everything. Damn. There’s really nothing more I can say apart from damn. Exodus: Gods and Kings should be everything a Ridley film could be. It looks gorgeous, insanely so for great stretches. Ridiculous and bombastic as fuck. Alberto Iglesias’ score is fantastic. The disappointed God-child had so much potential. But it’s all just too meatless. I want meat. I want blood. I want bone. I want lonely wandering. I want distant contemplation. I want the story of Moses, dirty and raw. I want a 5 hour long Biblical epic from Ridley. What we got isn’t all bad—just disappointing to me. A waste of so much talent. I wish I could’ve looked on from Ben Mendelsohn playing an Egyptian viceroy, but the instant his Australian voice came out, all I saw was Orson Krennic. Now that’s a good performance. “We stand here amidst my achievement. Not yours!”
