"Can I refill your eggnog for you? Get you something to eat? Drive you out to the middle of nowhere and leave you for dead?"
The Night Comes for Us, But Mostly One at a Time, and When the Night Does Finally Come for Us En Masse, We Fortunately Have a Corpse on Our Back with Which We Use to Kick the Living Shit Out of the Night
Timo Tjahjanto is not the next John Woo, but he's the Aldi equivalent of the next John Woo, which is perfectly acceptable when most of the first-run movies you watch premier on Netflix.
Back in 1994 I had a huge crush on a cheerleader at my high school named Ginger Jordan. The odds were decidedly not in my favor; I was a pudgy, oily-skinned, Zucker-Abrahams-Zucker-obsessed sophomore, while Ginger was a senior, one of the most popular students at the school, and only a few months away from heading off to college at UGA. Ginger tolerated my presence in a court-jester-to-the-queen sort of way—we shared the same drama class, during which I would use…
[NOTE: So this write-up turned into the longest thing I've written for Letterboxd yet—longer even than my goddamned Stalker review—which is probably the only reason I'm actually putting it on the site. It's problematic, likely guilty of whitesplaining and mansplaining, and really doesn't give a fair shake to Hidden Figures or its adherents. But, seeing as only about five people actually read my stuff, and three of them will no doubt see this review's length and give it a hearty…