Probably the greatest film in which a character's name is Walter Shit.

To its credit, it's rare that a film revels in its own perceived grossness quite as defiantly as Joe's Apartment does and it almost works as a competent parody of NYC's rampant gentrification in the '90s. Though it is actually rarely funny.

Much like he did with Seven (1995), writer Andrew Kevin Walker again plunges the absolute unfathomability of sheer evil in this aggressively dark—and considerably underrated, though understandably unpopular—mystery thriller. 8MM does occasionally acquiesce to formula and conveniently side-steps some niggling plot points, but there are a few set-pieces here that are among the most viscerally affecting and downright dread-inducing that I’ve seen in films of a similar ilk. Just as its PI protagonist (a solid, pre-meme Nic Cage) becomes desensitized to the horrors his current case is bestowing upon him, there is something morbidly compulsive about this dark descent into soullessness.

Hypnotic and brilliant, Jonathan Glazer's art-house rendering of Species explores the human form from an extrinsic perspective. The film tackles the notion of beauty being skin-deep in its own singular way as well as exposing just how uncomfortable we can be with our own bodies, echoing the greatest Cronenbergian works. A uniquely transgressive modern masterpiece, Under The Skin may well be the very best film of the year.

Inside Llewyn Davis is a soulful and great looking film with the Coens' trademark droll humour, a moving folk soundtrack (often sung live by the cast) and some cool cats. Although Oscar Isaac's performance is terrifically delivered, his titular character seems troublingly removed despite the odd outburst. His constant meanderings also prevented him from securing a fuller sense of engagement in me. A good movie, but not one of the Coens' very best.