I am but a bundle of impulses. Whatever I feel I think; much of what I think I do. But I'm so afraid I'll do what I feel.
There is no thought when the line between body and mind annihilates itself. What once was thought is now process. By its side is performance, expression's tenebrous complement. I don't know which is which at times, my consciousness a tad flatter, my heart beating a little faster. They're fool's errands to untangle…
This definitely feels less fleshed out than Strickland's other work, but it's decent enough and benefits from his detached confrontation when examining the human body and its implications. It still registers as something of a disappointment, though, and while I'm open to it playing better on a second viewing—I was taken aback by how chatty this is for stretches—I'm not entirely sure. It put me in a trance multiple times and the ensemble of self-effacement via its characters were enough…
So, so glad to see this beautifully shot, misanthropic, anti-capitalist masterpiece on 35mm. Very happy the projectionist played it so loudly, and the drag performances beforehand as part of Rated Q were super fun as well.
Shameless plug for my 25th anniversary essay on why this movie isn't Camp.
This as a midnight screening was… Well, I ascended. I really didn't know what to expect for it as a midnight movie, and it was a little closer to a Rocky Horror thing than a Room thing: as chaotic as you'd expect but surprisingly wholesome in how ironically batshit everyone embraced it without being mean. It was a shouting-at-the-screen thing! It was a singalong! It turned into a full dancealong at least twice! Everyone applauded at everything for the first 10 minutes straight, and for the credits everyone applauded everyone's names but booed James Corden's and Rebel Wilson's!
Anyway.
It's no more than a few minutes into its 132-minute runtime that The Green Knight lays its cards on the table. It doesn't really subvert expectations here; it's not like it immediately carves out its identity. Rather, it makes itself clear in the most literal of ways, although in one that doesn't register as such immediately. After an opening in which Sir Gawain (Dev Patel) wakes up hungover and half-naked, the camera tracks him from behind through sweaty medieval corridors…
