Painfully, awkwardly, nerve-wreckingly
and uncomfortably brilliant.

David Fincher's bitter love letter to Hollywood is a dream for any cinephile. Stylistically, the film oozes pastiche though never cheaply. The attention to detail, the care and mark of quality which is expected of Fincher makes one feel as though they are in very safe and competent hands for the entire duration. I look forward to rewatching one day.

*Synth starts playing*

Me: "👌👀 good shit go౦ԁ sHit👌 thats ✔ some good👌👌shit right👌👌there👌👌👌 right✔there ✔✔if i do ƽaү so my self 💯 i say so 💯 thats what im talking about right there right there (chorus: ʳᶦᵍʰᵗ ᵗʰᵉʳᵉ) mMMMMᎷМ💯 👌👌 👌НO0ОଠOOOOOОଠଠOoooᵒᵒᵒᵒᵒᵒᵒᵒᵒ👌 👌👌 👌 💯 👌 👀 👀 👀 👌👌Good shit"

This film is more uncomfortable than the folllwing things:

- Touching soggy food in the sink.
- Scraping your teeth on a chalkboard.
- Eye-contact between you and your mother when she caught you masturbating.