Glamorous rot. Exsanguinating angels. Trauma queens. Vultures in their sunday best. Corpses hollowed out embalmed with celluloid, rolled up in a blood red carpet. A picture is worth a thousand souls. You can't make a starlet without breaking a few legs!
F. Paul Wilson's novel filters through Michael Mann's mind and runs free. The story and characters become every changing abstractions. The fog of war, I guess.
This Nazi-Vampire tale is perhaps not the best vessel for one of Mann's tone poems on emptiness but as an Mann apologist I found it quite compelling nevertheless.
I've NEVER wept at the end of a film like I did with this one.
Being a young girl in the 1950s, experiencing this, Rooney Mara's character must have felt like she was on mars. Who knew life could be like this?
Filmmaking at the highest level. How did they do it? Todd Haynes has built an emotional computer or some shit, so many wires, all working together, all perfectly placed.
I don't know man, shit. It's real good.
Shane Black's back (say five times fast) with another quiptacular buddy film. A mix of many of my true loves: comedy, the 70s, noir, booze, and Gosling. Essentially Black giving us a series of classic genre set ups and then subverting them for comedic effect. In the end it's all for nothing except yuks, but man what yuks.
Unless my next re-watch of the great Kiss Kiss Bang Bang is truly transcendent then this is my favourite film Black has…