Mental illness handled as quirk, it’s unbelievable & sappy yet relatable. Will she get the guy? Will the old days be remembered? Downey Jr. straddles the line of charming and obnoxious. It’s probably worth revisiting for those looking for an autumnal holiday feature
First saw it at the Pompidou, Paris; abreast one of those dippy basketball fishtanks of Koon’s, my first lover by my side, drunk on my early 20’s and travel.
Later on, I “owned” it, as a file in a folder or deep in the folds of an internet I never bothered to comprehend, some proto-icloud; already two laptops back.
Most recently I identified it in a bar, San Fransisco, while a home-girl’s new guy bought more rounds and told tales of incalcuable violence.
I always liked it. A bear and a rat climb the alps and look down at stewing banks of nimbus. I am totes the bear. Or maybe, the rat.
Super dark Who Framed Roger Rabbit cgi. Weird child molestation undercurrents. Colin Farrell meet-ups in seedy alleyways with abused boys. Cute echindas & naked mole rats. Lotsa wizards shouting, “Evaporota!” Hollywood A-listers transform into other A-listers.
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.