the entire composition is the feeling of looking at the self and your adulthood in the mirror, you’re too grown AND too baby, you’re an autonomous construction of the most peculiar intersecting lines between your family members and your early life, and the love of your life is of a completely different material than anyone else. 

thematic resolution on every front for old dolio’s late emotional departure. her routine is laborious and to the terror of her parents and so…

So that's how you pronounce raccoon.

Oh, Hello finds a reason to exist on Broadway in its outcast identity, with which Nick Kroll and John Mulaney tout a premise that it in fact should not exist on Broadway. Beyond that the construction is, surprisingly, damn ornate: On one axis it's an act within an act within an act, on the other it ranges across stand-up, vaudeville, improv, podcast-y interview, to sexy raccoons. The gear keeps shifting, expectations are subverted, all…

writing this like a memento tattoo for when i’m navigating a disaster movie craving in my late 30s

Love the greens and yellows and aquatic blues,
the set looks SO good, the props look so good,  
the cg creepies had a real presence in earlier scenes when the lighting was scattered and they were kinda shapeless but it gets predictably reveal-y by the end,
fuckin packed with Alien nods,
character interaction’s sorta flat, sure. No selfish wildcard person, everyone is…