I love Luc Besson. I love Scarlett Johansson (who doesn't?). I love high concept absurdity. I love artistic leaps of faith and envelope pushers in mainstream cinema. I love it when a film is a ridiculous, but it also knows that it's ridiculous and chooses to run with it.
I think I might sort of love this film. Maybe.
I don't blame anyone for not loving it, that's for sure. Can I use the word "clusterfuck?" Because that's probably the…
The brilliant thing about this film is that I just know it will improve on repeated viewings. How do I know this? Because Edgar Wright, that's how.
Now that I've finally seen the entire "Cornetto trilogy," many marathons are going to be had. The girl I date had better fucking love Edgar Wright. Oh, and my future kids? They may not be ready to watch the Lord of the Rings trilogy until they're older, but they will sure as hell…
You know, this actually made sense to me. I was bracing for a fevered surrealist nightmare, but this felt much more like a coherent narrative than anything else.
I found myself eerily reminded of Bergman's Persona more than once - was that just me? Not only a sense that the two lead women might just be the same person, but a similarly energetic claustrophobia that pulsates in the silences between them. There's sexual energy, but there's also sincere compassion and…
I have a new theory about Lars. It has to do with his flagrant tendency to force the hand of his narrative into impossible contortions until morality is thrust into the frame, naked and trembling, daring you to feel emotional involvement with actors on a film set.
Take Uma Thurman's scene. Only an idiot would script such a ridiculously contrived scenario: the wife of an adulterous man brings their three sons into the apartment of her husband's whore so they…