And thus Clint Eastwood's onscreen persona is preempted by a little old woman in the 1930s. The biblical prelude is terrifying in a way only Ford can be, palpably emotional and outrageously sincere in its characters commitment to notions that might be considered today outdated: marriage, god, family, state. Visually understated yet so brutally effective. The second half then is where the film truly begins, Henrietta Jessop's old testament vernacular is first hardened by exposure to the world of the…
Watching Midsommar in the theatre is how I imagine watching The Green Inferno was when it was released in 2013, but whereas Roth’s film engages intelligently with the Italian cannibal cycle, Aster is content to pick and choose disparent elements from his favorite horror movies and crank everything up to 11 in an attempt to reach some Lars Von Trier level of provocation. (I read in an interview that Aster saw Dogville with his mom, so maybe this is payback…
It's 1934 and the projected print of Manhattan Melodrama is completely free of thermal, chemical, photochemical, and physical degradation.
Everything, from costuming to casting to score suggests a unaltered history. The narrative, facile as it is, fades in the wake of pure suggestion. An inability to record history without essentially reflecting modern standards onto an imagined past; a film about proximity.