I don't give movies ratings anymore because I love movies, every movie is a 5! Hooray!
Except Straw Dogs, fucking fuck Straw Dogs
Who are the subjects frozen before the camera eye, and who are the unfortunate souls merely reflected in its interior hall of mirrors?.
Knives hang on the wall, sometimes falling. Chandeliers and car mirror ornaments always swinging like so many swords above the head of Damocles. Actors trade their names like lost marbles on the playground.
The puzzle pieces don't fit, but if you hammer at a poorly cut piece, perhaps you can coerce it into a full picture.
Something happened at a screening of The Look of Silence.
Packed house. People were sitting in the dim room prescreening, in that nice little anticipatory void when the screen is black and the house lights haven't quite gone out.
"This is the kind of movie people go alone to," said one woman, a couple rows ahead of me to her four companions. I nodded. Completely alone in the theater, social dictates mandated that I keep my thoughts to myself.