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I have never seen Nell, but there were four unopened VHS copies in my childhood home. It's not as if my parents wanted a copy for every room. The four boxes sat next to each other on a bookshelf with other tapes in our living room. I don't even recall either my mom or dad ever mentioning that they particularly enjoyed this movie. Until today, I hadn't thought about Nell in nearly thirty years. This is the least of the mysteries my parents left behind.

Lycanthropes and tigers and ninjas, oh my!

The Beast And The Magic Sword might be the first, best, and only film about an immortal Czech werewolf noble slaughtering Spanish dubbed samurai in pursuit of a cure for his satanic curse. Superstitions about monsters and magic had more of an impact on everyday life in the Middle Ages than the knights and castles usually shown on film. Naschy hops from the Magyar invasions to the Spanish Inquisition and finally to the Sengoku Jidai to show how the fear of the unfamiliar can lead to violence. While I wish the film spent more time in Europe to contrast with the bloated Japanese portion, this is still a uniquely wonderful mashup of schlocky continental horror and melodramatic chambara.

Unresolved trauma, vulnerable protagonist, estranged family relations, isolated country estate, vaguely supernatural elements. Taste Of Fear might as well be an adaptation of a Henry James novel. There is a very domestic, Victorian quality to the film despite the explicitly modern setting. The horror isn't quite strong enough for me to categorize the film as gothic. Or perhaps the shadows are just not sinister enough for my tastes. The film almost feels like a homage to Hitchcock thrillers. The camera follows characters as if it were another entity watching nearby. While I love the visuals, the film relies too much on dry performances and an overstated soundtrack for its psychological impact. Maybe I will appreciate the twists better on rewatch now that I know what to look for.

Hell’s Hinges is a fiery church sermon wrapped in the frock coat of a western. The condemnation of frontier hootin’ and hollerin’ feels strange for an early example of the genre but entirely fitting for a nation ramping up toward Prohibition. I suppose Hart is a precursor to Reagan in more than cowboy antics. All tell and little show (at least until the apocalyptic finale), the message of heartfelt belief over lip service is overexplained at every opportunity. Swickard seems unwilling to let the actors’ performances speak for themselves other than to belittle those weak of faith. The storytelling by intertitles is excessive even by the standards of the silent era. I will commend the film for at least being clear about its intention from the first minute to the last. Stern and moralistic to a fault, Hell’s Hinges feels almost revisionist compared to the campier westerns which followed.

God Told Me To captures the "anything can happen" energy of living in a city. The social contract is also an act of faith that your fellow man won't kill you without warning. Values may change on the surface as we build subways and telephone lines, but baser instincts persist in the heart. Humans today are not too far separated from Cain and Abel.

The preceding pontification is meant to say that this film shouldn't be mistaken for mere exploitation. Gonzo camerawork half heightens drama and half mimics religious ecstasy. The overwrought orchestral soundtrack elevates the carnage into a prophetic vision. Similar to Bad Lieutenant, the religious themes of God Told Me To are thoughtful and earnest no matter how vulgar their presentation. "Out of the mouths of babes" feels like roughly applicable scripture here.

Oh boy, I was not expecting villainous redface in this silent western. I suppose xenophobia went hand-in-hand with the genre from the very beginning. Vernacular intertitles sometimes bog down the pacing in The Round-Up, but Melford had a knack for editing together an effective film. He really knew how to use vignettes for maximum impact. His well-composed shots almost make up for the flat staging. The beautiful desert cinematography and gun smoke action are also nice treats. Despite top billing, Fatty Arbuckle feels more like a plot element to move the story forward than an active participant. His only role in the love triangle and banditry plots is to resolve the situation into a happy ending for others.

Do not be deceived by the hackneyed patriotic opening scene. Rolling Thunder is a revenge story like Death Wish wrapped in a character study like Taxi Driver. The latter comparison is entirely apt since Schrader conceived Travis Bickle and Charles Rane as flipsides of how Vietnam vets adjusted (or not) to returning home. San Antonio may be Military City USA, but trauma doesn't care if you're in New York City or Ho Chi Minh City. 2,555 days as a POW rendered Rane pathologically indifferent whether listening to his wife say she slept with another man or stalking the good old boys who done him wrong. Devane's performance is solid but one-note compared to De Niro. The film is overall too stylistically conventional and too morally unambiguous for my tastes. There is little tension as Charles delivers righteous bloodshed, not least of all because a lady irer tags along on the trip.

The Sheik is remarkably orientalist even for the silent era. The stylized costumes and sets, visually appealing as they may be, are only part of the problem. The treatment of Arab culture is as contemptuous as it is romanticized. The romantic narrative itself is functional albeit problematic like a Middle Eastern version of Tarzan with all the requisite colonial baggage. The gender politics of the film are more damning of American values than anything else. It is impressive that Valentino became a heartthrob considering how sleazy he comes off. The intertitles feel unnecessary when the leads make such effective bedroom eyes, but the pacing doesn’t suffer much. The desert cinematography and camel-mounted action sequences must have inspired Lawrence of Arabia.

Kirsanoff understood that film is first and foremost a visual medium. Ménilmontant eschews intertitles to tell a very clear story without any dialogue. While the images of everyday life in Paris are not especially impressive by themselves, the juxtaposition of those images against each other and Sibirskaïa's poignant performance creates quite an impact. The editing of some sequences reminds me of Man With A Movie Camera, albeit with more straightforward storytelling. The way Kirsanoff used rapid cuts to imply scenes of murder and sex might be the prototype for “show, don’t tell" in cinema. I am also impressed by the sense of disorientation and interiority conveyed by the use of double exposure.

Ricochet is an action thriller in the lineage of Die Hard and Lethal Weapon. Unhinged yet not without morals, escapist flicks like this were the last hurrah for optimism in an increasingly cynical society. Going viral looked very different in the days of America's Funniest Home Videos. Good and evil were readily identifiable by how sexy they looked shirtless. Lithgow is always fun as a villain (*cough* Blow Out *cough*) and Washington is cool as hell, though I had bigger hopes for this matchup. The aspirational thread running through the film feels a little jarring interspersed with glorious ultraviolence. At least the camerawork is super varied with plenty of tracking and split focus shots to keep up the energy throughout. Visually and thematically, Mulcahy must be a De Palma fan.

The influence of Earth Vs. The Flying Saucers on how we depict alien invasions is amazing. References from The Twilight Zone, The Simpsons, Independence Day, and Mars Attacks immediately come to mind. It is easy to see why this film left a lasting impression when all the great Harryhausen miniatures get blown up in the finale. More than visuals, the film also has more to say about interplanetary relations than the average popcorn flick. The aliens first become hostile in response to human (read: American) aggression. The military-industrial complex just can't up a chance for war. While I would like to say miscommunication is the only cause for the conflict, these intergalactic refugees did not come in peace. At least the charming newlyweds survive unscathed.

Attack Of The Moon Zombies is more fun than I . The sense of humor feels like a 1950s workplace sitcom with space station flavoring. Being less parody forward, the film has room to create engaging characters. For better or worse, the performances are intentionally comedic unlike their overwrought sci-fi inspirations. The poor dubbing doesn't distract so much as complement the DIY ethos. I'm pretty sure the same makeshift set was redecorated with lawn furniture and cardboard recycling. The limited production makes for cramped framing and drab visuals, but this film ain't interested in cinematography. More effort likely went into deg the moon zombies than storyboarding.

She is the classic tale of how white men cannot leave well enough alone. In this instance, their foolhardy search for immortality results in the toppling of an ancient matriarchal society hidden beneath the Arctic. That synopsis might sound neat, but the spectacle of it all takes a backseat to a love triangle. To make matters worse, the sides of that triangle are a himbo, an orphan, and the aforementioned ancient matriarch. Guess who ends up happily ever after. Every character speaks in pseudoscientific jargon, masculine bravado, and stilted solemnity which plague old adventure flicks. A few impressive art deco sets and some decent action sequences (including a very cool dance) almost make up for the dull storytelling.

Not a lot of Scottish people in Edinburgh. The Body Snatcher is more of a melodrama with sordid flourishes than horror. The schmaltz of every scene involving the mother and child kill the mood set by the shadows in the rest of the film. Thankfully, the complicated relationship between Dr. MacFarland and Mr. Gray is the real meat of the story. While most films based on Burke and Hare focus on graverobbing, Wise seems more interested in medical ethics. "How your sausage is made" is an apt phrase to describe the clash between societal values like respect for the dead and societal needs like healing the living. These ideas are presented well by Karloff and Daniell who deliver wonderful performances marked by gravitas and cynicism. Wade, on the other hand, seems glaringly weak as the audience insert, probably for similar reasons as to why the paraplegic child subplot doesn't work for me.

Indian cinema showed some serious early chops with A Throw Of Dice. The film is strong in all technical and artistic aspects as well as very watchable. The classic tale of romantic rivalry and political intrigue is better paced and acted than most American films from the same era. While the cinematography isn’t terribly ambitious, I must compliment how well its sumptuous sets and costumes are presented. It also helps that I am a sucker for shots of crowds, animals, and architecture of which there are aplenty. I have a feeling the outstanding restoration work on the copy I watched might be partly responsible for my positive first impression. There was nary an issue with scratches, missing scenes, or unnatural playback speed.

Few adaptations of Lovecraft attempt to quote the man himself, as if his ideas sprung unwritten into existence. The Colour Out Of Space paraphrases the text in the first minute. Beyond setting the tone with introductory narration, other works in the mythos are namedropped (e.g. Ward Phillips) while firmly updating the archaic trappings of the story. The Gardner family envisioned by Stanley are well-rounded compared to the backwoods grotesques created by Lovecraft. Watching the family disintegrate mentally and physically by the ineffable makes a stronger impact than the postmortem frame narrative of the original short story. It also helps that Stanley cares about how a film looks unlike some schlockmeisters. The composition reminds me of pulp comic books, complete with hard transitions like the turning of a page. Oddly angled shots create unease before anything weird happens – and lots of weird shit happens when the story starts rolling. Stanley may not be unyieldingly faithful, but his film captures the feeling of reading Lovecraft better than any other adaptation I have seen.

Wheatley works best on the fringes. He can unfocus a normal concept such that its shape becomes unsettling and enthralling. In The Earth is a journey into the unknown (see: Annihilation, The Ritual, The Borderlands, et cetera) with oddly normal presentation. Strobe effects, otherworldly noises, and color filters fail to make as strong an impact as Wheatley likely intended. I partly blame the handicam visual style which can be too disarming at times. The personal struggles of the characters are almost as undramatic as either the global crisis or ancient mystery they hope to unravel. Pulling back the focus and mushrooming the scope might help me care a bit more about the story. At least then I might be better able to appreciate why this psychedelic trip actually matters.

I prefer more hubris in my creative misfires. The Eye Creatures is neither as audacious nor as incompetent as the films Buchanan tried to ape. The results lack the campiness which make golden age sci-fi fun. The tone sluggishly seesaws between thriller and comedy, both dull. The special effects are just able enough to avoid being boring. Perhaps the film would be better if the aliens played more of an active role. The human actors did little to keep my attention. Special shoutout to whoever selected the banger of a soundtrack from the AIP music library.

I can see why The Secret Of NIMH didn't make a bigger impression on me as a kid. A widow trying to save her son against the backdrop of a coup d'état might not have been the most fun story hook for young me. The animation is like a magnificent storybook, but the story being told is not nearly as engaging. For better and worse, the plot is more mature and less wacky than most kids movies. The deliberate pacing prioritizes the emotional core of the film to the detriment of its adventure. I wish the lilliputian worldbuilding were more integral to the narrative rather than just really cool to watch. If you close your eyes and listen, The Secret Of NIMH could be a live-action fantasy starring humans.

The Last Unicorn is proof that fairytales are best adapted as animation. Like the original novel, the film is narratively tight yet thematically deep. The artwork looks like hippie notebook drawings brought to life. The psychedelic aesthetic is further enhanced by medieval minstrelsy and singer-songwriter folk. The voice acting (Bridges' wooden performance notwithstanding) elevate characters who could have been mere fantasy archetypes. More than a journey of self-discovery and belonging, this is the story of a world which has forgotten its own heart. All in all, the film is an uncanny postmortem distillation of the Sixties counterculture movement.

Krull is a perfectly adequate popcorn flick. The story feels like an adaptation of an AD&D campaign with homebrewed sci-fi mechanics. Teenagers ad-libbing the script over multiple late night sessions would explain the disconnected episodic plot and serviceable character archetypes. The real draw of this space opera without space is the fantasy worldbuilding. Majestic stagecraft mountains, mysterious quicksand infested swamps, and a labyrinthine spaceship fortress are just a few of the exotic locales. Cheesy special effects and a swashbuckling soundtrack help this lackluster hero's journey feel a bit more thrilling.

If The Kashmir Files doesn't turn you into a full-throated Hindu nationalist, nothing will. This film makes the sensationalism and demonization of The Birth Of A Nation look quaint. Don't even get me started on blood rice. I've seen some gritty Indian dramas before, but Agnihotri has created something much bloodier yet colorless. The cinéma vérité style and stirring music selections are the peak of emotional manipulation. This sort of pathos-driven filmmaking is coded like the evangelical releases of Pinnacle Peak Pictures. The Kashmir Files is intensely ideological to a degree I will never fully understand. Never before have chants of "freedom" sounded so much like an existential threat.

Raja Harishchandra might be the first cinematic ion project in addition to the first feature length Indian film. The "copy" I watched included a behind-the-scenes featurette which helped contextualize the surviving reels. Considering the cost and effort of early film equipment, I cannot imagine many silent era filmmakers documented the creative process like Phalke did. In addition to writing, directing, and editing the film, he also handled most other aspects of production like set design and makeup. What little remains of the original film is impressive in its narrative clarity and visual inventiveness. The special effects remind me of the trick films of Méliès, though more serious as the techniques are used to tell a tale from Hindu folklore. While it feels wrong to rate an incomplete film, I still want to log Raja Harishchandra to praise its DIY spirit.

The New York Ripper is an odd duck in the canon of New York City movies. Compared to the grayscale romanticism of Allen or the neo-noir grit of Scorcese, this film depicts the city in obscene color. Time Square is a vibrant wasteland of eroticized violence... which may not be far from reality pre-Disneyfication. The uncanniness is only half explained by the fact Fulci is Italian. The stock giallo characters also feel like transplants with their exaggerated dubbing. Donald Duck as the killer is the most uniquely American aspect of the film. He would probably choose a .44 instead of blades as his weapon of choice, but that might be too strong of a localization for Fulci's brand of carnage.

It’s nice to see that Kinugasa can create a relatively straightforward psychodrama. The narrative of Crossroads may be easier to follow than A Page of Madness, but the filmmaking is no less bold. The tracking shots, overlaid images, and light play are as impressive and impactful as the work of Sjöström. The tragic romance in particular reminds me of He Who Gets Slapped, though the performances are less – or maybe differently – theatrical here. This is perhaps the bleakest ending of the silent era. Yukio Mishima must have loved this film.

Colorful, well-lit horror movies instantly earn my respect. The Slumber Party Massacre creates an uneasy mood without hiding everything in the dark. The name, face, and backstory of its driller killer are known from the start. Tension between kills is built by misdirection more than mystery. To that end, voyeuristic camerawork cleverly takes the POV of both the victims and their stalker. The action even extends beyond the party to neighbors watching across the street. The film isn't interested in subverting expectations of a slasher flick (e.g. nudity) so much as highlighting what makes the tropes ridiculous in the first place. While I'm not totally comfortable categorizing this film as feminist horror, I would say that it comes damn close.

This review may contain spoilers.

Barbarian is not your typical zombie redneck torture family film. Setting the story in a decaying urban neighborhood is just the first shift. While not a horror-comedy per se, the film often takes a lighter tone to highlight the horror of its scenario. The genre inversions make sense considering Barbarian is by the same writer/director as Miss March. The comedy to horror pipeline is hardly rare, though always a pleasant surprise. Both genres use similar tricks (misdirection, timing, et cetera) to elicit very different emotional reactions from the audience. It's the leap from short form to feature length which seems a little more difficult. The episodic storytelling in Barbarian introduces a few too many ideas to satisfyingly resolve them all.

National myths are built on more than might and magic. Die Nibelungen: Kriemhild’s Revenge tells a more grounded yet no less legendary tale than the first film. The costumes and sets are still exquisitely anachronistic, most notably the savage (albeit problematic) depiction of the Huns. Considering the film is dedicated to the German people, I am not sure how to reconcile a nationalist message with how sympathetic Attila appears compared to Kriemhild. Her cold-blooded quest to avenge Siegfried does not even spare her family. I suppose the intent may be that it is better to the figurative "other" than tolerate betrayal from your own countrymen. Visually if not thematically, Kurosawa must have had the fiery finale of this film in mind when he storyboarded Ran. Schön portrayed the most complex female protagonist of the silent films I have seen so far.

Films about filmmaking are prone to indulgences which non-industry folks like myself find hard to chew. The Stunt Man is no exception. The film works best when it blurs the line between fiction and reality. Unfortunately, deconstructing movie magic is harder than just making a movie. The lively visuals and pacing during in-film action scenes are missing during lukewarm backstage drama/romance. The unhinged ice cream confession can stay. If only O'Toole were the lead instead of a scene-stealing foil to an outmatched Railsback. The flashes of self-awareness and meta commentary are mostly worth the bloated runtime.

The Death Of Dick Long is practically a live-action King Of The Hill episode. Coen Brothers analogies are fine, I guess. Like the animated sitcom, the film treats its ridiculous story with the utmost sincerity. Zeke and Earl attempting to coverup the misadventure with their friend is filmed like a crime drama but plays out like a comedy of errors. Songs by Nickelback, Hinder, and other butt rockers fit both sides of the tone. I appreciate how the characters are eccentric yet never enough so to become rural caricatures. Small town cops shooting back Malibu and pineapple juice is just the right amount of weirdness without losing authenticity. That level of care for its subjects – not necessarily its real world inspiration – is refreshing in these post-ironic times.

From the director of Kids comes another film about wayward youth. The direction in Bully is polished without losing the intimate, camcorder style. As a true crime drama, the performances have a menacing undertone even when dumb teens do dumb teen stuff. I was excited by the sexy grittiness of the story when I last saw the film way too young. Rewatching now, I wish the self-destructive behavior on display felt less exploitative. Repressed homosexuality, abuse begetting abuse, and flooding hormones are implied rationales without much elaboration or sensitivity. Then again, real life rarely has a perfect explanation, so the lurid excesses might be realistic after all.

“And if you gaze long into [a parody], [the parody] also gazes into you.”

Humor doesn’t always translate well, but shit talking is universal. The caricatures in Mister West show how Soviets viewed Americans as well as how Soviets thought Americans viewed them. It warms my heart to see that the flag-waving, rootin’ shootin’ Yankee stereotype has endured for a century if not longer. In addition to mocking Americans and their Red Scare propaganda, Kuleshov also pokes fun at his own countrymen pouring glasses of scotchka, drinking tea out of ashtrays, among other capitalist faux pas. While the film may not be as energetic or extravagant as Lloyd or Keaton comedies, I can see the influence during slapstick chase or fight scenes. The filmmaking is more technically impressive than I expected, including early examples of superimposed text/images and POV camerawork.

Are Speedy and The Cameraman the first twin films? Released months apart in 1928, both films are madcap comedies which hop around New York City glimpsing how folks work and play. While Keaton is undeniably the more ambitious filmmaker, I appreciate how Speedy is more of a complete narrative than a disconnected series of stunts like The Cameraman. The humor here is largely situational which suits a film aiming to showcase life in a city on the move and in transition. Babe Ruth playing himself was an unexpected treat and maybe the first example of a celebrity cameo. Overall, I found this film more charming and better paced than Safety Last! or even The Cameraman, so I’m glad that I gave Lloyd another chance.

I refuse to believe that Verhoeven hadn't seen Stage Fright before making Showgirls. The former may be quasi-giallo and the latter quasi-porn, but the similarities in how they depict showbiz are uncanny. Then again, tawdriness and excess are hallmarks of slashers just as much as melodrama. This film looks more garish than glitzy and yet there is a vibrancy in its dark shades. The ever-present stage lighting is another neat touch. The influence of Argento on Soavi is readily apparent, but I wish there were a stronger psychological undercurrent to elevate the successful exercise in style.

I don't watching Lord Of Tears before, but the (repressed?) memories came rushing back. The artistic vision of this film is flawed from the start. The snapshot logic of the editing in particular became grating after the first nightmare sequence. And what the fuck was with the soundtrack choices? There is something about the stiff line reads and clumsy camerawork which make the film feel like a parody of gothic horror ala Russell or Flanagan. I find it hard to believe that budget constraints are solely to blame for the tonal issues. Even the seemingly literate ideas of the script rub me the wrong way.

Old man yells at strawman.

Does anyone watch Gramps Goes To College unironically? While the film may look like it's preaching to the choir, its true purpose is to sway the unconvinced. In that sense, I cannot imagine the film appeals to its intended audience. It is astounding how little Rossetti understands about filmmaking, let alone college. The film looks and sounds as lifeless as watching CCTV footage from inside a megachurch. Even as a hate watch, the tone is too unbearably earnest to keep anyone engaged. I've heard methheads rambling on the train with more interesting or convincing rhetoric.

Sight gags, slapstick, prop comedy, cameos, cultural references, wordplay, dick jokes, spit takes, cartoonish surreality. Unrelenting satire like The Naked Gun needs to make a comeback. You would be hard pressed to find a higher jokes-per-minute ratio. The greatest quality of the humor is that the gags rarely call attention to themselves, most notably in Nielsen's deadpan delivery. Yeah, I know Neeson is taking up the mantle of Frank Drebin in an sequel, but my confidence is low. Rendering the serious unserious is a dying art. The issue is not political correctness but rather irony going mainstream. It seems impossible to satirize already ridiculous action films like Fast X or Deadpool & Wolverine.

The vitality of Soviet silent films like The Girl With The Hatbox compared to the nationalistic talkies which followed is a little glaring. Similar to how the Hays Code neutered American filmmakers, socialist realism hampered Soviet filmmakers. This film reminds me of the romantic comedies of Keaton or Lloyd. Sten relied on charm more than madcap antics to appeal to the audience, though there are some stunts in the latter half. It is also refreshing how the story focuses on the plucky girl instead of her lovelorn or materialistic suitors. Natasha proposing marriage to the hapless student fresh off the train was likely intended as a message of social(ist) unity. Before the Soviet Union forcefully resettled its rural population, welcoming people from the periphery to the new urban center was practically a patriotic duty.

Ghoulies is such a fond childhood memory, just like its purported inspiration Gremlins. Aside from the general concept of pint-sized monsters, the two films have very little in common. This is less of a campy creature feature than a campy dark fantasy. The ghoulies don't commit nearly as much mayhem as the mogwai. I likely didn't understand the satanic overtones as a kid, though I certainly appreciated the spooky atmosphere. The film has an eerie lighting scheme and bombastic soundtrack which are fun no matter how old you are. The overwrought acting just adds to the mood.

Roger Corman jumps on the Charles Bandwagon. Munchie shares more in common with DTV kids movies like Prehysteria! or Remote than the wave of E.T. clones. The tone is whimsical but awkwardly adult at times. The cheapo special effects deliver short bursts of wackiness. While DeLuise does his best to voice the stiff animatronic to life, the film would be better off without Munchie. Daydream cutaways inject a strong enough sense of childhood wonder. If you want juvenile wish fulfillment minus the magical imp, check out Blank Check instead.

In the same year Tony Curtis played a slave turned prince in The Vikings, he also played a racist turned friend in The Defiant Ones. Ah, the duality of Hollywood.

The cold opening is an excellent primer on what Kramer intended this film to be: Drama laid bare. Clean and close cinematography. No soundtrack (technically). Character-driven story. It's easy to see why this film inspired so many chained together survival plots. The idea that familiarity – even forced – can exorcise hatred is very appealing. The dynamic between Curtis and Poitier helps sell that idea. Characters spilling their guts to each other rarely feels this natural or engaging. Run-ins with the law and various racists contextualize the fugitives' worldviews better than if the film were just Curtis and Poitier riffing off each other for 90 minutes.

I need to watch more Technicolor adventures like The Vikings. Fuck historical accuracy. I want colorful costumes and sets, death-defying stunts, and gruff American accents. The English are depicted as such stodgy prudes that it's impossible not to cheer for the Vikings. Douglas, Curtis, and Borgnine have enough manly charisma to make you overlook all the raping and pillaging purported in the tapestry opener. The story is such a fun mix of theatrical melodrama and low-brow action. The film feels like a western with Norse pagentry.

Post-apocalyptic in Delicatessen looks an awful lot like the disorder and destruction of World War II . Visually and tonally, the film is an eccentric bedfellow of Brazil. Despite many layers of grime, this vision of humanity conveys more hope for the future. For example, the government has seemingly ceased to exist. Louison and the other denizens of the tenement would be free to live their lives were it not for the cannibalistic rent-seeking of Clapet. An age of calamity is as good an excuse as any to wash away the "natural" order.

Oh, so this is why everyone loves Lang. Die Nibelungen: Siegfried is mythopoetic before the first shot. The intertitles appear to be copied directly from the medieval manuscript, marginalia and all. While the pacing can lag like many silent films (even on 1.5x playback speed), the sumptuous visuals are enough to carry the film for its entire length. The stagecraft is so impeccable that I cannot tell which sets were found in nature versus constructed in a studio. Everything about the production from the costumes to the framing grants the film a larger-than-life feeling fit for a heroic tale. Lang pulled damn near every filmmaking trick available at the time. Even the special effects which haven’t aged as gracefully (e.g. the dragon) are stylistically spectacular. This is how an epic should look on film.

I previously watched Bed And Sofa juxtaposed against October: Ten Days That Shook The World in a Soviet history course. While I appreciate the political fervor of Eisenstein, sometimes you want a funny little love triangle with an abortion subplot. I recall this film being divisive in the Soviet Union for focusing on people rather than the Party. The blunt depiction of changing sexual mores would have likely been even more controversial to Western audiences. One reason I love silent films like this is the eye-level view they provide of how different societies functioned a century ago. Using the montage style to tell a story about everyday people invariably highlights and dramatizes the minutiae of their lives. Even if Room had not intended to celebrate socialism, there is still a sense of celebrating the socialist people themselves… though certainly not their promiscuity.

Buffalo '66 is a more grounded reimagining of Natural Born Killers. Gallo channels the neurotic energy of Tarantino as an actor and the patchwork pastiche of Stone as a director. Instead of a murder spree, antisocial Billy Brown leaves a trail of awkward encounters in his wake. The film is simultaneously compelling and frustrating. The dialogue goes a mile a minute while the narrative lingers on dead notes. Ricci seems to portray a concept more than a full-fledged person which is likely how Gallo intended every character except Billy. This must be what navigating the world with ADHD feels like.

Yes, Ryan Coogler. I also love From Dusk Till Dawn. That comparison is absolutely reductive but apt. Sinners hits very similar story beats as the 1996 crime drama turned vampire flick. Unlike the Rodriguez/Tarantino film, Coogler injected much deeper ideas into his genre mashup. He seems more inspired by social realism than grindhouse thrills. While the film feels too stylistically slick at times, there are moments of superb weirdness like the "dancing through time" scene. I wish the film were as successful with the horror elements as the period drama.

As a depiction of the Jim Crow South, Sinners refreshingly focuses on the resiliency rather than the struggles of African Americans. It is in their attempt to enjoy life (aka "sinning") that the supernatural trouble begins. This vampire film is not interested in historical accuracy. Getting the feeling right is more important for conveying an allegorical truth about race relations. To that end, vampirism is cleverly treated as a fatalistic hivemind of the oppressed. A community is only as healthy as the roots from which it grows and the branches it extends out.

The Loved Ones would fit in with other offbeat indies of the early 2000s were it not for all the fucked up Dahmer shit.

Sometimes the shy girl no one notices is alone for a reason like Princess (played to terrifying perfection by McLeavy). On the other hand, sometimes the moody, mysterious boy has some serious trauma he needs to work through on his own. Establishing that Brent tortured himself physically and emotionally out of grief before being kidnapped adds a layer to his struggle for survival which is missing from lots of horror films.

The bright production design and quirky tone of the film are more akin to Lars And The Real Girl than torture porn like Hostel. Setting sappy singer-songwriters over unsettlingly violent and sexual imagery is crucial to the genre inversion. The subplot of the seemingly normal horny teenagers at prom are another great juxtaposition. The Loved Ones has more thematic and emotional depth than most teen romcoms in addition to some very exciting gore.

It's rare to find a horror comedy which is neither funny nor scary. Dead & Breakfast squanders a handful of good ideas on a toothless parody of zombie films. The characters are better written than most Evil Dead/Braindead ripoffs, but they still make for dull victims. The singing cowboy narrator is the best addition to the formula. My biggest gripe is that the film is primarily shot and edited like a comedy. Failing to build tension, the gore feels as throwaway as the jokes. While I want more magic talking zombies, this doesn't scratch the itch.

Thir13en Ghosts this is not. The Gravedancers is a melodramatic ghost story with not much to recommend. The desaturated visuals and sentimental (bad) acting remind me of early 2000s television like Beyond Belief: Fact Or Fiction. The film wants to be a serious horror film, but the execution is too by-the-numbers to be effective. After the ghost hunters are introduced, the film nosedives into a convoluted expository mess. The supernatural scares are mostly spooky noises, cheap effects, and jerky camera movements. There are some neat ideas in the finale but too little too late.