Cuddly, neo-noir, racism parable. The mouse has still got it. The other night I dreamt I met Jenny Slate who voices the sheep secretary. We were on the freeways soft shoulder, it was insect buzzing dusk. I asked her out for coffee and was honored she agreed. I confessed I knew her over creamer, “from comedy” I said as women in mumus milled about sugar caddies. She told me I was over-compensatingly macho in my compliments. I’m sure that’s good advice. Thanks Jenny!
Deterministic, Terrence Malicky Contact. Nice to see aliens that don’t slather for war. Some lifestyle porn, a sick house on the shore, bay windows. Forrest Whittaker shows up for the chosen one, sad Mom, her little wonder buried in the backyard. She falls in love with that one Avenger. The one who doesn’t have powers. Thunderball or something.
The hungry city, puking eyeballs. Sweet, secret-witch artsploitation. Baroque, stylish and the best kind of dumb. Sad and vicious. The neon demon lives in electrical currants coursing through toys for young girls. The neon demon hangs out by the sea, walks around the salt flats, writes letters home. Here’s the neon demon, his mouth on her mouth, her mouth on hers.
Satan preaches consent in this awesome psychedelic feminist sex witch anime. Looks like Paul Klee. Lot’s of medieval brouhaha set to acid jazz.
A straight Chucky after two post modern raunch-fests, formulaic and kinda chrome colored. Brad Dourif is gross in this but then he’s playing a psychopath.
Sometimes I’m swallowed by my mind and can do no right. Bad habit trap. I wanna be a good boy Mark Ruffalo. Pouring all my time and energy into exposing the Catholic church, neglecting my marriage. So Keaton can gaze down the long bridge of his nose to me. The miles of distance between the Boston basement. He’ll whisper, “Good job” and I’ll be whole. He’ll caress me and sing to me in his Mother’s arm and carry me to sleep on the backs of a thousand rough-spun balloons. This is one of those perfect Hollywood movies, totally entertaining while on and once over immediately forgettable. We’re larger than movies. We’re life.
Gator slurpin’, gut chompin’, swamp zombie schlock. Cheap & dull. I mistook it for this other movie, Alien Factor which is supposed to have a lot of cool claymation beasts and a Maryland heart.
A street dancer spins to soft beats while cold earth crystalizes the hearts of the vampire lovers. A tepid, mumblecore Ganga & Hess remake. It starts strong, remain political, exudes malaise & solemnity, moves glacially. Jesus saves and kills in equal measure.
Hollywood witches dress as New England witches, brood over boys backed by Faith Hill. Toads born from dirt, spirits in the sand.
Same plot as The Artist. Dreamy, sweepy technicolor meta 50’s Hollywood musical. The dormant theatre kid in me does backflips and whoops for joy