Even more unknown and lost than Eli's usual work, for most that wouldn't be a compliment, but for him it's an endearing testament. Deranged low-key Lynch like vibes shiver into the spine and land in the gut like a whirlwind of nauseating lighting. Director losing himself inside his own film, a madman inside his own creation. And as he finds himself lost and adrift in the mighty Sea of Cinema, we too find ourselves screaming for Wilson by the end of it.
“The clearest way into the Universe is through a forest wilderness”
- John Muir
Seconds stretched into calignosity, a frozen eternity bubble; stillness of time expressed as a painting with a million things on its mind howbeit as gentle, transparent and unmistakable as the silkiest tempest rivers of your cosmic reveries. No shots, moments or flashes of immediate and relevant discernible handsomeness particularly stand out above the next inside the unity, structure and cohesion found in nature’s imbalanced discord and…
“There's a special rung in hell reserved for people who waste good scotch. Seeing as how I may be rapping on the door momentarily...”
“I must say, damn good stuff, Sir.”
Inglorious Bastards is some damn good stuff!
I despise some of the lame criticism Tarantino gets on being a dialogue driven and viscerally violent filmmaker. Does it is make him any less of an artist then Malick or Tarkovsky? No. Artist paint with different brushes and strokes. His greatest…
Stuff all the Roland Emmerich’s of this world into a boat and let it sink. We need more Denis Villeneuve’s. Arrival meditates on first contact questions I have long pondered but never voiced. Lensed to a purposefully and forcefully perceptive intent orientated meeting of language, sound, discourse and meaning. Sewing together time and memory, a touchingly beautiful retrospection transiently fleeting. Right from the opening scene you know the subplot is integral, a fast shot of life, raising one’s kids. Paralleling…