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A friend of mine suggested an interesting notion for Christopher Nolan to consider: What about just writing the screenplay and leaving the artistic decisions to a different director?
Would the never-ending 150 minutes go by faster? Would the main characters possess a heart and earn viewer empathy? Finally, would Nolan’s astounding time warp perplexities include a dash of much needed humor?
Don’t get me wrong, Nolan deserves accolades for his mark on cinema, especially for his state of the art…
Look, I’m an avid fan of Charlie Kaufman’s earlier work and placed Being John Malkovich (1999) in the 8th spot for my Top Ten of the Last 20 Years, and I still go back and marvel at its masterfully crafted revelations, both psychological and humorous. Kaufman’s Gedankenexperiments are gold to the likes of the motion picture medium and viewer who dabbles in Kafka and enjoys imagining things under a shady tree.
Unfortunately and inevitably, an auteur like Kaufman is bound to exploit even…
Too atonal for its own good, this “American Werewolf in Fargo” hybrid throws rapid fire comedic jabs at a horror premise with a lot of unaddressed male issues. The throws that land feel as if they weren’t supposed to, and the throws that miss miss to the point of ugliness. This anger-fueled yell fest might be therapeutic for oddball director/writer, Jim Cummings, but it’s torture to the viewer. Who knew alcoholism, misogyny, murder, and agism could be so unfunny. Merry effing Christmas, right, Jim?
1917 is a miracle in filmmaking. Never have I been so deep-seated in a journey through the shrapnel-infested bloodshed of war and my theatre chair at the same time. I blame it all on the camera work.
The camera puts you right there.
As British soldiers Blake (Dean-Charles Chapman) and Schofield (George MacKay) deliver a message to higher authority to end an invasion against a retreating German front that will end up being a deathtrap for thousands, the camera follows…
There is no doubt Quentin Tarantino belongs to the Greatest American Film Directors Club, and Scorsese, Coppola, and Spielberg should be greeters at the door (Big Kahuna Burgers served inside). His knack for non-sequential storytelling and intertwining narrative is impeccable and legitimately his. Cherry-topping that, his testosterone-prone dialogue fires as rapidly as the bullets that protrude through well-scripted characters you both love to love and love to loathe. Basically, you know when you are watching a Tarantino movie, and you…