I once directed a version of Hamlet that was shorter than this... Everything here is a lie, or a dream, or a vision, or a ride on the magic mushroom horse, or the ultimate folly. Contains Ethan Hawke stunt casting. The score makes itself known. Gorgeous, severe photography. Lotta butts.

Café Paraíso constructs the grimy grind of being under the greasy thumb with sweaty and desperate central performances in a cauldron of indifference. We stand beside and follow kitchen worker, Gallo, at close quarters through narrow backroom hallways and a warren of overflowing bins and ad-hoc kitchen stainless steel. Sound emphasises the assault on the senses, the personhood. Monochrome photography explicates the stultifying oppression of living on the marginal, subsistence employment with stifled, half-formed dreams. Dreaming of self-assertion. Ants trapped in a soapy aspic, awaiting a with a life-giving water. Trapped in an unforgiving structure, they will never see it.

Solid pick for a five-hour flight, as it happens.

"If you can't protect the integrity of the system, then there is no system." If that's not one of Clint's cinematic obsessions, I don't know what is.

My feelings, on screen. Tremendous. Adroit direction. Brody is a revelation.

What most of the people my age ignore, I embrace. Everything is special to me. Every little thing I do becomes magical.