The daily clockwork of toxicity interrupted by the accidental unleashing of a buffalo. What begins as a structured use of physical discipline, beat your wife to maintain your household, dominate her to maintain your sexuality, quickly turns into complete fucking chaos.

All these thin justifications for cruelty begin to shed, the inserts of relationships, factions and societal hierarchy burnt to ash while increasingly lengthy takes of testosterone boil all the humanity away as sheer hysterical fury begins to rampage through…

An absolute race to the bottom. Not the film, though it is dire, but the Astor audience. Hundreds of idiots desperately trying to tear apart a film aloud in order to validate their decision to wallow in irony for two hours, launching into nunsploitation levels of hysteria over the slightest sexual provocations and putting forth mocking standing ovations for everyone who agreed to star in the project.

There’s such a colossal misappropriation of the cult oddity here. A communal embrace…

"Say it with flowers"

Stunning to think that the Ginza on display here is only ten years after the end of WWII. Ginza had long been a centre of western design philosophy, but the sheer Franco-Americanisation is overwhelming. It's Japan at the height of western idolisation, where cabaret clubs and beauty contests are the fabulous ideal, every woman wants a bottle of Chanel No. 5 and dropping some French loanwords are distinctions of class.

Tales of Ginza utilises a city…