Death spiraling outward, body count horror as limitless expressivity. This is a profoundly cynical film on Bava's part but it also seems he's having a lot of fun! By this point in his career he had wished to move away from horror, and one definitely feels a weariness with the form here; there is no Gothic framework, no romanticism, the bleeding gels are gone, replaced by leaves, rotting homes, sunset, and slaughter, insects under glass. And yet it's essentially a…
Space and touch, light and rupture. Fascinating that what is really something of a conventionally (albeit superbly mounted) twist-laden murder mystery is folded in on itself so adroitly that despite the de-mystification brought thundering down by expository-explanatory speeches, what remains is an array of psychic and temporal fissures that essentially render the narrative resolution almost moot. Instead it's all perspective and memory, dreams and fantasies, cavernous spaces and bad trips. The "villain" is led away to a police-car, but the…
The way Coogler judges how long to hold on faces for a first date, or edit footage of Apollo at Adonis' most (physically) desperate moment, or have Stallone react to a photo of him and his real son; it's all of an intimately felt emotional register, quiet but also triumphant like the preceding franchise. A small (therefore big) miracle of story and people craft in Hollywood's most souless age. Fought back tears throughout.
"How will we make it?"
"Maybe we shouldn't."
Fire and ice, blue and red, flares and snow. Carpenter fine tunes the formalism of his previous films to something absolute, pure (before branching outwards). The film has no fat, every shot creating atmosphere, building dread, sustaining an unbearable tension between bodies and the spaces they inhabit (as well as other bodies). In daylight, the Antarctic expanse is forbidding, rigid, sharp, but when night falls it becomes an abyss. Figures, rendered silhouettes…