I do wish there were more biopics of jazz legends that were this smart about the way they present the artistry, as Parker is actually brought to life here, 3D in the flesh, as a complete creator. But an overlong plot, especially stilted at the start with almost theatre-like dialogue, and an inability to grapple with the almost spiritual touchstones of this man’s life, ultimately stopped me from connecting with Clint here.
It doesn’t help that I’ve never cared for…
Tame British prison exploitation flick that plays on nymphette/preacher’s daughter tropes in a fairly breezy, self-aware way. But while it manages to tick all the male gaze-y boxes, it does so without actually having any style, flair or anything much of interest going on at all that would redeem this flaccid and uninventive fantasy.
I lie, there’s one thing: the lingering attention paid to a retractable CB aerial on a van. Wowie.
A really inventively-made doc with shockingly good B-roll, superb editing, light touch narration (with no on-camera secondary interviews!) and a killer soundtrack, obviously.
I was a bit worried that it would be TERFy, since Wendy Carlos is not included in the main lineup, but she does eventually get her own segment, however brief. A friend argued that its because she's much more commercial than the others—I think Maryanne Amacher disses it as playing "dead white men's notes", which,…
A plastic bird and accompanying nest sewn to a wool hat. A blue-checked lumberjack shirt. Four bandanas of different colours tied to the wrist. Denim cutoff dungarees. An extra-long telephone extension cord wrapped around the body and holding up some kind of burlap purse. Unbuckled fisherman boots.
The is the formula alchemists have long searched for that turns lead into gold, but better: TWIN GOLD.