“Do you only fuck someone, to sleep next to them?” This might be the most terrifying representation of Stockholm Syndrome that I’ve ever witnessed, but it’s so much more than that—it’s a chamber-piece, conducted in an atmospheric mise-en-scène that’s too often left to the taboo fetishisation of art. Here, we don’t see it through the crude lens of a ‘tourist’. What’s more, there’s also something oddly romantic in L’inconnu du Lac’s storytelling—whether it’s the cinema’s stagnant rhythm, a cyclical chronology,…
You can’t truly admire “Sunset Boulevard”, without the film’s star-studded end credits—it is, itself, a scathing study in Hollywood celebrity, through the meta-textual persona of Gloria Swanson’s career. What struck me most was the character of Max, lavishly written to be more than the ‘loyal butler’—was played by a real-life auteur. Aside from the melodrama’s transgressive casting-call, there’s a technical excellence in the movie’s dolly-shots that makes everything feel queerly modern. It’s camp, but it’s also constructed on terrifying truths.
P.S: I’m ready for my close-up.
This is blatantly written by the twee ego-maniac that wrote a collection of Freudian poetry, called “Straight James // Gay James”—and, I adore him. Tinted in the muted tones of the 2010s teenager, there’s no true philosophy to be understood in the coming-of-age film’s runtime. Alas, it’s more akin to the atmospheric art-style of today’s contemporary. Can cinema ever feel too “of the times”? I’ll admit, Franco’s subject-matter is slightly unoriginal—but, Gia Coppola’s banal Californian nothingness serves as the appropriate vocal-fry for his vague dialogue. It’s actually kinda perfect.
P.S: Never have I ever been physically attracted to my P.E teacher.