#to be just another fellow filmmaker with everyone else

[gellavonhamster]

Tagged by the lovely @mushiemellows to post four characters that make me say "my man, my man, my man." Hehe.

Quincey Morris. THE Gothic horror cowboy ever - not that there are too many Gothic horror cowboys, which must be because most filmmakers can't handle his sheer power and don't include him in the movie adaptations of Dracula (and the adaptations that do include him don't do him much justice, though they get a cookie from me for trying). Brave, compassionate, a "rough fellow" and a "gallant gentleman" at the same time. Tells a girl who rejected him he'll be okay with just remaining her friend and then actually proves himself a great friend, wow. Would totally die for his friends, would totally speak exaggerated Texan slang just to make Lucy smile. Super hot and ~manly~ according to Jack "Bisexual Disaster" Seward and pretty much everyone else. There's a post of mine gushing about him in the Dracula Daily book, which is a tiny bit embarrassing, because I've made plenty of much smarter posts about this novel, but you know what, that tracks.

2. Porthos from BBC's The Musketeers specifically. I'm kind of a fake Three Musketeers fan, because I've read the novels and enjoyed them a lot, but when it comes to the main characters, I highly prefer them in this historically inaccurate, book-inaccurate show. The original musketeers are much more complex as characters, but they're also quite shitty as people, and while I appreciate their complexity, their significantly-less-shitty working-class versions (or rather, three working-class ones and Athos the class traitor) are dearer to my heart. And Porthos, well, damn. BBC really knew what they were doing when they took Howard Charles - a very attractive man per se - and gave him leather clothes and those puffy shirts and a pirate-y bandana and an earring and a cool scar. Porthos is actually my favourite musketeer in the books as well, but the one from the show completely won my heart with his loyalty, kindness, and commitment to justice. And with being hella charming, too 👀

3. The currently inevitable One Piece part of the list! Look, I'm a simple woman, I'm not immune to gruff but secretly kind men who are built like a brick shithouse (and buy ice cream for random kids, and tell their corrupt superiors to eat shit). So I would let Smoker do unspeakable things to me. Who said that.

4. Caleb Brewster from Turn: Washington's Spies is one of those cases when I laid my eyes on a character and immediately thought "I guess this one's gonna be my favourite" and was absolutely right. To quote another character from the show, "he's unshaven, he's insane". Also loyal to a fault and extremely funny and reckless to the point of piloting an 18th century submarine. An absolute madlad. Every time there's some kind of a "who's hotter" poll in that fandom, I end up convinced that people understand nothing. But then again, most people probably were either Legolas girls or Aragorn girls, and I've been a Gimli girl since the age of nine.

Tagging @jennathearcher and @murphmurphthejerk - I know what one of the answers is going to be, but I'd like to hear the other three as well ;) As always, feel free to ignore if you don't want to answer, and so on, and so forth.

[ghostofadeadpoet]

A Wes Anderson-esque Review of The Wonderful Story of Henry Sugar

July 8th, 2074

“Images do not stay in my memory for long. It’s a curse I have been dealing with throughout my life. I forget the face of every person I meet, which sometimes even includes my close friends. To my fortune, I am gifted with the ability to remember words. I can memorise an entire book of 3000 pages by reading it just once,” he says as he finishes his meal.

“That’s incredible. You must have read a lot of books,” I say.

“In my younger days, I’d fritter my time away reading hundreds of books which never piqued my interest. I did it because it seemed to be the best use of my ability until I realised that it was my fellow humans who fascinated me. I took more joy in conversing with a random stranger during travel than in reading Sartre.

Which brings me to the creepiest aspect of my ability, which is that I can recite a whole conversation I had with another person word-for-word. The time and place of the conversation don’t matter in the least because I remember every word every person spoke in front of me ever since I was five years old.

Now, at my frail old age, death looms over me and most people I’ve met in my life have passed away. But they were never forgotten, and I must ensure, at the best of my ability, that it remains that way, which is why I asked you to create this collection of interesting conversations I had over the years.”

I assure him with a smile.

“So, shall we start?” he asks.

“Sure, do you have anything in mind for the first one?”

“Yes, I do. I want to kick off with something light-hearted.”

“Good to hear.” I press record on my device. “You can start,” I say.

“The following is a conversation I indulged on 28th September 2023 with a man whose name I didn’t bother to ask.

Before the city became uninhabitable due to climate change, Chennai used to be densely populated, where summers lasted for ten months. I was in the backseat of an autorickshaw, the one where you share the ride. I was accompanied by a young man in his mid-20s, whose face I don’t remember. Not even the details, there weren’t any oddities about him. He probably looked like everyone else.

Most people don’t like to be bothered and are comfortable with being quiet. People who’d like to be bothered become restless when in front of abject silence. Symptoms: tendency to be fidgety and shaky legs. It’s not always the case but you can rely on it as an effective measure to avoid throwing yourself into awkward situations.

To my luck, he was kind enough to take the burden of having to start a conversation away from me. He pointed at some place which was likely a house or an apartment complex and said, “That’s where I grew up.”

I’ll spare you the small talk. He was a screenwriter and was involved in the cinema business, something that I always ignored due to my condition. A famous filmmaker, Wes Anderson, had released a short film called “The Wonderful Story of Henry Sugar.” I lied that I knew about this director and he didn’t think twice before he started to talk about his experience of watching the film.

On the surface, it seems like a gimmick. Anderson, who is a student of French New Wave films must just be paying tribute to Truffaut’s Day For Night. But for FOUR CONSECUTIVE FILMS? There must be something more to it, and Henry Sugar helped me figure it out.

Suspension of disbelief takes place when a reader or a viewer is completely immersed in the world created by the author where the illusion is so strong that the laws of reality don’t matter anymore. Every film has its own unique set of rules, colours, costumes, style of acting, etc., Everything must come together as a cohesive experience for the audience to be immersed. If a film strays away from its ‘rules,’ let’s say the colour tone of Grand Budapest Hotel suddenly changes to the one from Asteroid City, or Adrien Brody gives a Shakespearean monologue in The Darjeeling Limited, the illusion will be broken.

The more whimsical the ‘rules’ are, the harder it is to establish them. It’s easy to set up a film like Rushmore where the ‘rules’ are somewhat grounded in reality. Isle of Dogs and Fantastic Mr. Fox had the luxury of being animated. The same can’t be said for his recent live-action films where the characters don’t talk or act like real people. Thus, the story-within-story trope allows Wes Anderson to establish his world. Henry Sugar takes it to the extreme with its frequent fourth wall breaks, allowing Wes Anderson to not be limited by expectations of realism and conventional storytelling.

Asteroid City, for example, could work without Bryan Cranston’s TV show segments, but they embellish the overall experience. When a film called Asteroid City starts with a character saying “Asteroid City does not exist,” you observe the movie and its characters from a detached perspective.

As soon as I finished watching The Wonderful Story of Henry Sugar, I read the original short story by Roald Dahl. I know film adaptations that are better than their source material, but I’ve never seen a filmmaker take an awful book and make it charming. Wes Anderson uses a fusion of audiobook and stage-play style of narration where the characters narrate the action instead of performing it. The visuals exist merely as an aid and not the primary storytelling device. You can understand 95% of the film with your eyes closed.

Roald Dahl makes the classic mistake of ‘telling’ and not ‘showing’ throughout the story which takes the reader out of the immersion. Anderson, on the other hand, takes it to the extreme to the point it is ridiculous. It takes you out of the immersion as well but in a good way,” he paused.

“I think I have to get down here. It was nice talking to you,” he said. We shook hands and he got out of the autorickshaw.”

“It wasn’t exactly a conversation, was it? It was more of a monologue,” I say.

The old man shrugged.

“Did you watch the film?” I ask.

“I did. Many times, actually. I used to resist cinema because ‘what’s the point if I can’t remember any of the frames’ but then when I rewatched The Wonderful Story of Henry Sugar, I realised that I could experience the cinematography again and feel the same way I did for the first time, a luxury I never had with words. I could never feel anything when my wife tells me that she loves me because I remember the ten thousand times she said it before. It’s good to forget just a little.

I began to appreciate the images I encounter in my everyday life. Every time I look at the eyes of the love of my life, I see the glint in her eye with affection I’ve never seen before. And of course, I began to appreciate cinema. Although, I don’t remember many of the films, except for some Wes Anderson that were basically audiobooks.”

“Why didn’t you ask his name?” I ask.

“I never thought about it. Perhaps the ‘monologue,’ as you’d call it, made me see the beauty in the unknown.”

I stop the recording.

“It was nice talking to you. I will write them down, and uh…”

“You can call me,” the old man writes down his number on a tissue paper and hands it over to me.

“Thank you so much,” I say as I get up from my seat.

“And my name is”

“No. Let’s not share our names,” I say with a smile.

I leave the dining hall to return to my hotel room. On my way in the elevator, I open my device to add The Wonderful Story of Henry Sugar to my watchlist.

[yesterdanereviews]

Miami Connection (1987)

Film review #579

Director: Richard Park, Y.K. Kim

SYNOPSIS: A drug deal in Miami is intercepted by a gang of motorcycle riding ninjas. Meanwhile, the Sister of one of the ninjas has joined the band "Dragon Soul," and her brother disapproves, leading to a lot of martial arts fighting between just about everyone on the streets of Miami.

THOUGHTS/ANALYSIS: Miami Connection is a 1987 martial arts film. The film opens up with a drug deal being intercepted by a gang of motorcycle riding ninjas: just in case you're wondering what kind of film you're about to experience. The plot of the film is no less bizarre, as it revolves around a band named Dragon Soul, whose members are orphans and best friends, and learn taekwondo with their mentor and fellow bandmember Mark, played by Y.K. Kim, who co-directed, produced, wrote, and nearly bankrupted himself to get this film made. There isn't really much of an overarching story here, other than everyone in Miami just wants to pick a fight with the band for one reason or another, so they usually have to fight their way out. There's a plot concerning one of the bandmembers finding his biological Father as well, but nothing really leads to anything or goes anywhere. There's a message about the band wanting to travel over the world spreading peace and love or something, but that seems rather drowned out by the mass fighting on the streets they get involved in every ten minutes or so.

Despite all the woeful dialogue, bad acting, and lack of any real story, there is something very charming and enjoyable about this film: its cheesy and nonsensical, but it's always entertaining as you never quite know what it is going to attempt next. It is a "so bad it's good" film, and earnestly one of the best. You can tell Kim was deeply passionate about making this film and spreading a message about Taekwondo and brotherhood, but he had absolutely no experience making films in any capacity, and the fact that he had complete control over this film shows. There's nothing mean-spirited or any sense of a cash-grab, and the good intentions of the filmmaker shine through.

I think it's safe to say you won't see anything else like Miami Connection: it exists in its own universe of 80's martial arts action and music that, while makes no sense and lacks any kind of filmmaking knowledge, still manages to make a cinematic event that's still authentic and chaotic enough to make it entertaining, and worthwhile to watch. It's really not the kind of film you can sum up and review, and perhaps that makes it a bit of essential cinema.

[bewitching-elizabeth-olsen]

Press/Gallery: How Elizabeth Olsen Brought Marvel From Mainstream to Prestige

“The thing I love about being an actor is to fully work with someone and try so hard to be at every level with them, chasing whatever it is you need or want from them.”

  GALLERY LINKS

Studio Photoshoots > 2021 > Session 008 Magazine Scans > 2021 > Backstage (August 19)

Backstage: Elizabeth Olsen grins widely over video chat when recalling many such moments on set with her co-stars. Yet, she can’t bring herself to divorce such a lofty vision of film acting from the technical multitasking it requires. The camera sees all.

“But then you move your hair, and you’re in your brain, like: OK, remember that! Because I don’t want to edit myself out of a shot. I know some actors are like, ‘Continuity, shmontinuity!’ But the good thing about continuity is, if you remember it, you’re actually providing yourself with more options for the edit.”

That need to balance being both inside the scene and outside of it, fully living it and yet constantly visualizing it on a screen, feels particularly apt in light of Olsen’s most recent project, “WandaVision.”

The mysteries at the heart of the show grow with every episode, each fast-forwarding to a different decade: Could this 1950s, black-and-white, “filmed in front of a studio audience” newlyweds bit be a grief-stricken dream? Might this ’70s spoof be a powerful spell gone awry? Could this meta take on mockumentary comedies be proof that the multiverse is finally coming to the Marvel Cinematic Universe?

The series’ structure, which branches out to include government agents intent on finding out why Westview has seemingly disappeared, calls for the entire cast to play with a mix of genres, balancing a shape-shifting tone that culminates in an epic, MCU-style conclusion. What’s key—and why the show struck a chord with audiences during its nine-episode run—is the miniseries’ commitment to grounding its initial kooky setups and its later special effects-driven spectacle in heartbreaking emotional truths. It’s no small feat, though it’s one that can often be taken for granted.

“I was thinking how hard it would have been to have shot the first ‘Lord of the Rings,’ ” Olsen muses. “Like, you’re putting all these actors [into the frame] later and at all these different levels. All the eyelines are completely unnatural. And yet the performances are fantastic! And technically, they are so hard. People forget sometimes that these things are really technically hard to shoot. And if you are moved by their performance, that took a lot of multitasking.”

As someone who has learned plenty about harnesses, wirework, fight choreography, and green screens (she’s starred in four Marvel movies, including the box office megahit “Avengers: Endgame,” after all), Olsen knows how hard it can be to wrap one’s brain around the work needed to pull off those big, splashy scenes.

“​​If you think about it, it’s, like, the biggest stakes in the entire world—every time. And that feels silly to act over and over again, especially when people are in silly costumes and the love of your life is purple and sparkly, and every time you kiss them, you have to worry about getting it on your hands. Those things are ridiculous. You feel ridiculous. So there is a part of your brain that has to shovel that away and just look into someone’s eyeballs—and sometimes, they don’t even have eyeballs!”

The ability to spend so much time with Wanda, albeit in the guise of sitcom parodies, was a welcome opportunity for Olsen. Not only did it allow the actor to really wrestle with the traumatic backstory that has long defined the character in the MCU, but having the chance to calibrate a performance that functions on so many different levels was a thrilling challenge.

“It was such an amazing work experience,” she says. “Kathryn [Hahn] uses the word ‘profound’—which is so sweet, because it is Marvel, and people, you know, don’t think of those experiences as profound when they watch them. But it really was such a special crew that [director] Matt Shakman and [creator] Jac Schaeffer created. It was a really healthy working environment.”

Related‘WandaVision’ Star Kathryn Hahn’s Secret to Building a Scene-Stealing Performance ‘WandaVision’ Star Kathryn Hahn’s Secret to Building a Scene-Stealing Performance Considering that the miniseries spans several sitcom iterations, various layers of televisual reality, and a number of character reveals that needed to feel truthful and impactful in equal measure, Shakman’s decision to work closely with his actors ahead of shooting was key.

“We truly had a gorgeous amount of time together before we started filming,” Olsen remembers. “Our goal was—which is controversial in TV land—that if you wanted to change [anything], like dialogue in a scene, you had to give those notes a week before we even got there. Because sometimes you get to set, and someone had a brilliant idea while they were sleeping, and you’re like, ‘We don’t have an hour to talk about this. We have seven pages to shoot.’ And so, we were all on the same page with one another, knowing what we were shooting ahead of time.

“Matt just treated us like a troupe of actors who were about to do some regional theater shit,” she adds with a smile.

That spirit of camaraderie was, not coincidentally, at the heart of Olsen’s breakout project, Sean Durkin’s 2011 indie sensation “Martha Marcy May Marlene.” As an introduction to the process of filmmaking to a young stage-trained actor, Durkin’s quietly devastating drama was a dream—and an invaluable learning opportunity.

“It was truly just a bunch of people who loved the script, who just were doing the work. I didn’t understand lenses, so I just did the same thing all the time. I never knew if the camera would be on me or not. There was just so much purity in that experience, and you only have that once.”

The film announced Olsen as a talent to watch: a keen-eyed performer capable of deploying a stilted physicality and clipped delivery, which she used to conjure up a wounded girl learning how to shake off her time spent in a cult in upstate New York. But Olsen admits that it took her a while to figure out how to navigate her career choices afterward. In the years following “Martha,” she felt compelled to try on everything: a horror flick here, a high-profile remake there, a period piece here, an action movie there. It wasn’t until she starred in neo-Western thriller “Wind River” (alongside fellow Marvel regular Jeremy Renner) and the dark comedy “Ingrid Goes West” (opposite a deliciously deranged Aubrey Plaza) that Olsen found her groove.

“It was at that point, when I was five years into working, where I was like, Ah, I know how I want it. I know what I need from these people—from who’s involved, from producers, from directors, from the character, from the script—in order to trust that it’s going to be a fruitful experience.”

As Olsen looks back on her first decade as a working actor, she points out how far removed she is from that young girl who broke out in “Martha Marcy May Marlene.”

“I feel like a totally different person. I don’t know if everyone who’s in their early 30s feels like their early 20s self is a totally different human. But when I think about that version of myself, it feels like a long time ago; there’s a lot learned in a decade.”

Those early years were marked by a self-effacing humility that often led Olsen to defer to others when it came to key decisions about the characters she was playing. But she now feels emboldened to not only stand up for herself and her choices but for others on her sets as well.

“[Facebook Watch series] ‘Sorry for Your Loss’ I got to produce, and I really found my voice in a collaborative leadership way. And with ‘WandaVision,’ Paul [Bettany] and I really took on that feeling, as well—especially since we were introducing new characters to Marvel and wanted [those actors] to feel protected and helped,” she says. “They could ask questions and make sure they felt like they had all the things they needed because sometimes you don’t even know what you need to ask.”

It’s a lesson she learned working with filmmaker Marc Abraham on the Hank Williams biopic “I Saw the Light,” and she’s carried it with her ever since. “I really want it to feel like we’re all in this together, as a team,” Olsen says. “That was part of ‘Sorry for Your Loss’ and it was part of ‘WandaVision,’ and I hope to continue that kind of energy because those have been some of the healthiest work experiences I’ve had.”

If Olsen sounds particularly zealous about the importance of a comfortable, working set, it is because she’s well aware that therein lies an integral part of the work and the process. As an actor, she wants to feel protected and nurtured by those around her, whether she’s reacting to a telling, quiet line of dialogue about grief or donning her iconic Scarlet Witch outfit during a magic-filled mid-air action sequence.

“Sometimes you’re going to be foolish, you know? And [you need to] feel brave to be foolish. Sometimes people feel embarrassed on set and snap. But if you’re in a place where people feel like they’re allowed to be an idiot,” she says, “you’re going to feel better about being an idiot.”

This story originally appeared in the Aug. 19 issue of Backstage Magazine. Subscribe here.

Press/Gallery: How Elizabeth Olsen Brought Marvel From Mainstream to Prestige was originally published on Elizabeth Olsen Source • Your source for everything Elizabeth Olsen

[leighlim]

I was wrong! It's still VERY watchable.

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(Hopefully by this point you’ve finished every minute of ‘Save the Last Dance’, the kind of person who isn’t bothered by spoilers, or are just deciding if you still want to keep watching.)

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As I rewatched the film, I felt a bit of nostalgia, but also new things.

For example, I didn't expect to be thinking about My Exception at all. I mean, she's usually in my thoughts ever since I've gotten the nudge that she exists. But actually seeing her in Derek during that conversation that leads up to them breaking up? I found that quite interesting.

Maybe adolescent me would have been like: "Oh Sara, why did you say that!?"

Middle aged me is now: "I get it. I get why Sara is saying that."

Another thing was that even if this was directed by a man and made during the era of films littered with the 'Toxic Male Gaze'...I felt the camera was quite respectful of the female characters.

(I'm sure as a filmmaker, you might think that there could have been more tweaks done...and I'm pretty sure there may have...so...yes...DM me those thoughts!)

PS: This entry actually almost ended up as a 'Dear, E' kind of letter...thankfully I was able to find an approach to give a nod to her as well as also addressing you, faithful reader.

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Highlight:

(I'm hoping I translated this correctly --- as a fellow 'runner'…I'm probably going to get Sara's subtext better than Derek)

Sara: I thought that with the fight and everything…maybe we should cool it for a little while.

(Translation: I need space to process all these changes)

Derek: What?

[Sara doesn't say anything]

Derek: Well, uh, what are you saying? Are you saying you don't want to be with me? You don't wanna be seen with me? What are you saying?

Sara: I'm just saying I'm confused, that's all.

Derek: Confused about what? Me?

(Translation: Are you leaving me?)

Sara: A little bit.

(Translation: Nothing is final. I just need to process this.)

Sara: Yeah---No---Maybe.

Derek: Maybe? So hold on. What? Are we just talking about Steppes and school, or are you talking about the grocery store, the sidewalk, and museums? Break it down a bit for me, Sara….'cause I don't get it. When is it okay for us to be together? To be seen together?

Sara: Why are you getting mad?

(Translation: I want to be closer to you but it's just difficult when a lot of people just want our connection to fizzle out. Maybe I'm missing something?)

Sara: I'm just being honest. Nobody wants to see us together. We spend more time defending our relationship than actually having one.

(Translation: Are you sure you want to be with me? Even if everyone says you shouldn't?)

Sara: Its so hard.

Derek: So, everything gotta be easy? That's the story of your life, not mine.

Sara: You know this much about my life, Derek.

Derek: I know when ---- gets rough, you give up and punk out.

(Seriously Derek. If you're dealing with a runner. This is one of the easiest ways to make her run. Thank goodness Sara didn't run out on you at this point.)

Derek: Just the way you punked out on ballet when you mom died.

Sara: You don't know ---- about my mother. How dare you talk about my mom! God!

Derek: I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that. It's just that…all this ---- just kind of caught me off guard. I mean, it's, like, damn, you don't wanna be with me. Is that what you're saying? That you don't want to be with me?

Sara: No, it's not like that. I'm just just trying to tell how how I feel and you're taking it personal.

Derek: Let me tell you something, Sara. I just hit the best friend I have in the world in the face over you. I've been taking ---- from people I've known all my life. People I care about, that care about me so I could be with you.

(Translation: What else do you need for me to do to prove that I want to be with you?)

Derek: Telling myself that we are in this together. So, don't give me all this 'nothing personal' ----. I don't wanna hear it.

Sara: Fine. If I'm messing up your life so much, then maybe we shouldn't be together.

Derek: You know what? I don't need this ----. I don't even know why I bother. I'm out. To hell with it. The hell with you.

(Not sure if Derek is indeed a 'chaser' but if we're going with stereotypes…if Sara is a 'Runner' its likely that Derek is a 'chaser'. But the fact that Derek is not running the first instance Sara brings up doubts and instead clarifies what she means…is that he is a chaser. Or at least an 'evolved runner' because he is the one who leaves the room rather than Sara.)

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My verdict of the film: 7/10

Link to the timestamp commentary: None (If you would want me to do one for the film…throw me a nudge!)

A Formal Review of the film: None (I might? But it isn’t labelled as a comedy….but if you’re really keen for me to do one…let me know.)

My Thoughts about the creation and development of the film: None (Additional reading material would be queued up if I was given enough nudges.)

More of my comments about the film: None planned

Instagram Entry: TBA (I think it's a definite yes! I'll link to is once it's up!)

[lucysometimeswrites]

Hey can you please make a award season one but for a latina reader, if you would like you can keep the tom element. Sorry I'm asking again I accidentally deleted the last ask I made. I love your writing, you are amazing.❤️☺️

thank you thank you so much ur so sweet and of course! here you go and i hope you like it :) absolutely loved writing for latina!reader 

Awards Season (latina!reader)

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“Here to present the award for Best Actress in a Leading Role, please welcome Meryl Streep!” the host announced. A roar came from the audience at the mention of her name, the very acclaimed actress welcoming the attention and making her way to the microphone.

“Oh, stop it” she said and waved them away, earning a laugh and even more cheering from the theatre. “If I’m honest, I really considered not presenting this award because it breaks me inside to give the Oscar to someone else when it’s rightfully mine” she said in a funny, raspy evil voice, resembling a witch, “But you know, sharing is caring or whatever. Alright let’s get to it.” she continued dejectedly, still joking.

“This year, we have been blessed with beautiful films and, along with them, incredible performances from beautiful and talented actresses. Viola Davis, your abilities to embody different characters and raise awareness to ongoing issues in society has always amazed us, and it does once again in Ma Rainey’s Black Bottom”, Meryl announced, the camera going to Viola who was sitting about 10 seats to my left, the audience (including me) applauding and praising her. Literally all of her performances are incredible.

Could I still believe I was here? Definitely not, and not any time soon. From small skits to my big break with Tom Holland in a stupid rom-com that I didn’t even want to make, to now. Tom knows it’s nothing against him, it’s just that I haven’t learned to appreciate romantic comedies the way he has, but the thing I loved most from doing it was finishing it with Tom. He had become such an important person in my life since that moment, what with guiding me through the newfound world of fame and being there for me when I joined the Marvel franchise, it was just more than I could ever dream of. Now I sit here at the freaking Oscars, with Tom Holland as my date, and having done one of the greatest films ever, nothing could keep the smile off my face. Or the nerves.

 My leg kept bouncing up and down, a nervous action I often did and one that the guy beside me had caught on to real quick when we first met. His warm hand gently squeezed my thigh, and I turned to look at him a little surprised.

“Hey, it’s okay” he softly said, his gaze soft and comforting.

“I didn’t even realize I was doing it” I answered in the same tone, whispering a thank you and letting my hand rest on top of his, weirdly interlocking our fingers. 

Meryl turned to where Olivia Colman was sitting, “Your Majesty,” she started, referencing her portrayals of royalty and causing her to chuckle, “your moving performances have always left us wanting more, and I’m sure that is what I and everyone felt when we saw you in The Father” a big smile broke out on her face, and cheering ensued once more for our queen, or at least one of mine.

“Aging is some we all go through...unfortunately,” Meryl uttered into the mic, touching up her almost white hair, “and you, Cynthia Erivo, made us relate to your character this way with your brilliant acting in Reaching 39″, that woman is simply amazing, I thought as I clapped and cheered with the audience.

“My dear Kate,” the camera panned to Kate Winslet, who just stared fondly at the woman on the stage, “watching you grow as an actress has been one of the pleasures of my life and you reach new heights both professionally and literally in Misdemeanors”, she is such an icon, oh my.

Finally, Meryl Streep turned to look at me in the front row with a grin on her face, and I quickly got into “camera mode”, as I like to call it. I sat up straighter, looking at her with gentle eyes and smile. 

“Señorita Y/N Y/L,” she started with the heavily accented Spanish word for Ms., “with your entrance into the world of filmmaking, you have set new expectations for all of us to reach. Even though this is your first nomination, I feel in my heart it won’t be the last, and we can’t wait to see more of you like we saw with your extraordinary performance in Paraíso” she finished, bringing a big smile to my face at her words. Turning to the camera, I became a bit shy and gave a small wave, feeling Tom squeeze my hand in comfort and another hand on my shoulder from behind. I turned to see Salma Hayek, one of my co-stars in the film, who gave me a strong nod and smile, loudly saying “Eso!” as a cheer for me.

“And the Oscar goes too...” ayyyyy no ay no que nervios que nervios que nervios me muero- all of this going through my head repeatedly but having to put on a smile and a calm façade for the camera was exhausting. Tranquila, tranquila, si no ganas está bien igual solo el hecho de estar aquí ya es lo más-

“Y/N Y/L, Paraíso!” Meryl announced, and all I heard were screams and loud clapping from around me. 

Shocked, I looked up with wide eyes and my jaw going slack a little. I felt a buzz fill my body and the idol on the stage beckoned me up, when I realized I hadn’t moved. I slowly stood up and instantly turned to Tom who quickly pulled me into his arms with a strong hug and whispering in my year, “I knew it! I knew you would do it darling. I’m so so proud of you babe, go get your award!” not giving me a chance to answer as he gave me a quick kiss and turned me around in the direction of the stage. Still in a bit of a daze, I didn’t see Salma, Eugenio (Derbez), and Benicio (del Toro) make their way to me, ambushing me in a group hug as they started jumping around and sort of with me, chanting “EH! EH! EH!” like Latinos at a party and causing me to laugh and come back to my senses. I hugged them all and continued to the stairs, stopping to hug my directors Guillermo del Toro and Alfonso Cuarón. 

I lifted my dress as I ascended the steps, and in true nervous fashion, stumbled and almost face planted in front of thousands of people. 

“Uy, mierda” I chuckled to myself, and accepted the help of none other than Chris Evans who lent his arm for the remaining steps. I thanked him with a smile and after his Congrats!, I made my way to Meryl who held the famous award in her hands. She handed it to me and pulled me into her embrace, saying “Beautiful job, sweetheart, you’re amazing”, and all I could answer was “Oh my, thank you so much, you’re the amazing one”, sharing a laugh with her and standing in front of the mic.

I looked out into the audience, who were still giving me a standing ovation. Almost like a camera in my head, I tried to ingrain this moment in my mind and took a deep breath, starting my speech.

“God, I really hope I don’t forget any words in English right now” I said with a breathless laugh, inciting one from the people below me. “Thank you so much. Thank you to...um...so many people. To the Academy for this great, great honor. To my fellow nominees for inspiring me every single day. Being in the same room as you is already insane, let alone being nominated with you, it’s just- it’s truly out of this world. Viola, Olivia, Kate, Cynthia, you are my literal idols and if I could physically cut this Oscar into five pieces,” I said as I made a motion of cutting the award and humoured the audience, “I would give a piece to all of you. Um, thank you to my team, my agent, Victoria, te adoro y te agradezco for believing in me and helping me live out my dream. Sorry, I’m probably gonna switch between languages during this.” I said with a laugh. 

“Paraíso was a project that, for me, came out of nowhere. But for my extraordinary directors los señores Guillermo del Toro and Alfonso Cuarón, it was a life’s work so to you, gracias por darme la oportunidad de darle vida a Marielos and for giving me the experience of a lifetime. Salma, Eugenio, Benicio, Gael, and all the cast and crew, thank you for becoming my second family and supporting me every step of the way. It has been my honor to work with you” I said with a hand on my chest, showing that I was speaking from my heart and smiling at the kisses and cheers sent to me from them, hearing a crazed Te amamos! from Eugenio. It eased the tension in my body which I was incredibly thankful for. 

“I also want to thank-” I stopped, getting a little choked up, “ha, sorry, it’s my family that couldn’t be here” I said, a wave of claps and cheering in comfort came from the audience. Quickly composing myself, I continued, “Ya, okay. All the way back home, lo hice! Familia, les dije que no les iba a agradecer si me ganaba un Oscar algún día por no creer en mi y hoy es ese día, pero no me lo perdonaría si no les agradezco. Gracias por apoyarme a pesar de que yo sé que les dio un ataque que quisiera ser actriz. Gracias por siempre estar ahí para mi, por quererme incondicionalmente y por enseñarme que trabajando duro todo se puede lograr. Los amo infinitamente.” I finished, with tears threatening to roll down my eyes. I tilted my head to the sky to prevent them from falling, and with a deep breath I turned to Tom who had his hands in a prayer stance while looking intently at me, the same smile from before still gracing his face.

“Tommy...” I started, and the audience audibly awed at the nickname, “Oh, you don’t even know what I’m gonna say to him” I said with narrowed eyes, but my gaze found my love once more.

“Thank you so much for being my rock ever since we met. I’m beyond thankful for you and all you do for me, baby. You make me the happiest and thank you for pushing me to do things that scare me. For being there for me in case I fall and for being my person. Te amo, amor.” I blowed him a kiss which he caught and jokingly used to wipe his tears, making me and the other celebrities laugh.

Please wrap up, I read from the screen, and let out and “Ay, perdón! I gotta wrap up sorry sorry” hurriedly finishing up my speech. 

“Lastly, this award goes out to all the Latina girls out there with big dreams. Nunca se den por vencidas. No dejen que nadie les diga que no porque de que se puede, se puede. Querer es poder! I love you guys, my fans oh my gosh, thank you thank you, gracias!” I rushed out, raising the award to the air with one last big smile as Meryl guided me backstage to answer some questions. Just before I was off sight, I turned and looked out to the stage once more.

Lo logré...

---------------------------------------------------------------

once again, disclaimer, movie names are mostly fictitious. feedback and requests always welcome!

[grigori77]

Summer 2021′s Movies - My Top Ten Favourite Films (Part 2)

The Top Ten:

10.  WEREWOLVES WITHIN – definitely one of the year’s biggest cinematic surprises so far, this darkly comic supernatural murder mystery from indie horror director Josh Ruben (Scare Me) is based on a video game, but you’d never know it – this bears so little resemblance to the original Ubisoft title that it’s a wonder anyone even bothered to make the connection, but even so, this is now notable for officially being the highest rated video game adaptation in Rotten Tomatoes history, with a Certified Fresh rating of 86%. Certainly it deserves that distinction, but there’s so much more to the film – this is an absolute blood-splattered joy, the title telling you everything you need to know about the story but belying the film’s pure, quirky genius.  Veep’s Sam Richardson is forest ranger Finn Wheeler, a gentle and socially awkward soul who arrives at his new post in the remote small town of Beaverton to discover the few, uniformly weird residents are divided over the oil pipeline proposition of forceful and abrasive businessman Sam Parker (The Hunt’s Wayne Duvall).  As he tries to fit in and find his feet, investigating the disappearance of a local dog while bonding with local mail carrier Cecily Moore (Other Space and This Is Us’ Milana Vayntrub), the discovery of a horribly mutilated human body leads to a standoff between the townsfolk and an enforced lockdown in the town’s ramshackle hotel as they try to work out who amongst them is the “werewolf” they suspect is responsible.  This is frequently hilarious, the offbeat script from appropriately named Mishna Wolff (I’m Down) dropping some absolutely zingers and crafting some enjoyably weird encounters and unexpected twists, while the uniformly excellent cast do much of the heavy-lifting to bring their rich, thoroughly oddball characters to vivid life – Richardson is thoroughly cuddly throughout, while Duvall is pleasingly loathsome, Casual’s Michaela Watkins is pleasingly grating as Trisha, flaky housewife to unrepentant local horn-dog Pete Anderton (Orange is the New Black’s Michael Chernus), and Cheyenne Jackson (American Horror Story) and Harry Guillen (best known, OF COURSE, as Guillermo in the TV version of What We Do In the Shadows) make an enjoyably spiky double-act as liberal gay couple Devon and Joaquim Wolfson; in the end, though, the film is roundly stolen by Vayntrub, who invests Cecily with a bubbly sweetness and snarky sass that makes it absolutely impossible to not fall completely in love with her (gods know I did).  This is a deeply funny film, packed with proper belly-laughs from start to finish, but like all the best horror comedies it takes its horror elements seriously, delivering some enjoyably effective scares and juicy gore, while the werewolf itself, when finally revealed, is realised through some top-notch prosthetics.  Altogether this was a most welcome under-the-radar surprise for the summer, and SO MUCH MORE than just an unusually great video game adaptation …

9.  THE TOMORROW WAR – although cinemas finally reopened in the UK in early summer, the bite of the COVID lockdown backlog was still very much in effect this blockbuster season, with several studios preferring to hedge their bets and wait for later release dates. Others turned to streaming services, including Paramount, who happily lined up a few heavyweight titles to open on major platforms in lieu of the big screen.  One of the biggest was this intended sci-fi action horror tentpole, meant to give Chris Pratt another potential franchise on top of Guardians of the Galaxy and Jurassic World, which instead dropped in early July on Amazon Prime.  So, was it worth staying in on a Saturday night instead of heading out for something on the BIG screen?  Mostly yes, although it’s mainly a trashy, guilty pleasure big budget B-picture charm that makes this such a worthwhile experience – the film’s biggest influences are clearly Independence Day and Starship Troopers, two admirably clunky blockbusters that DEFINED prioritising big spectacle and overblown theatrics over intelligent writing and realistic storytelling.  It doesn’t help that the premise is pure bunk – in 2022, a wormhole opens from thirty years in the future, and a plea for help is sent back with a bunch of very young future soldiers.  Seems Earth will become overrun by an unstoppable swarm of nasty alien critters called Whitespikes in 25 years, and the desperate human counteroffensive have no choice but to bring soldiers from our present into the future to help them fight back and save the humanity from imminent extinction.  Less than a year later, the world’s standing armies have been decimated and a worldwide draft has been implemented, with normal everyday adults being sent through for a seven day tour from which very few return.  Pratt plays biology teacher and former Green Beret Dan Forrester, one of the latest batch of draftees to be sent into the future along with a selection of chefs, soccer moms and other average joes – his own training and experience serves him better than most when the shit hits the fan, but it soon becomes clear that he’s just as out of his depth as everyone else as the sheer enormity of the threat is revealed.  But when he becomes entangled with a desperate research outfit led by Muri (Chuck’s Yvonne Strahovski) who seem to be on the verge of a potential world-changing scientific breakthrough, Dan realises there just might be a slender hope for humanity after all … this is every bit as over-the-top gung-ho bonkers as it sounds, and just as much fun.  Director Chris McKay may still be pretty fresh (with only The Lego Batman Movie under his belt to date), but he shows a lot of talent and potential for big budget blockbuster filmmaking here, delivering with guts and bravado on some major action sequences (a fraught ticking-clock SAR operation through a war-torn Miami is the film’s undeniable highlight, but a desperate battle to escape a blazing oil rig also really impresses), as well as handling some impressively complex visual effects work and wrangling some quality performances from his cast (altogether it bodes well for his future, which includes Nightwing and Johnny Quest as future projects).  Chris Pratt can do this kind of stuff in his sleep – Dan is his classic fallible and self-deprecating but ultimately solid and kind-hearted action hero fare, effortlessly likeable and easy to root for – and his supporting cast are equally solid, Strahovsky going toe-to-toe with him in the action sequences while also creating a rewardingly complex smart-woman/badass combo in Muri, while the other real standouts include Sam Richardson (Veep, Werewolves Within) and Edwin Hodge (The Purge movies) as fellow draftees Charlie and Dorian, the former a scared-out-of-his-mind tech geek while the latter is a seriously hardcore veteran serving his THIRD TOUR, and the ever brilliant J.K. Simmonds as Dan’s emotionally scarred estranged Vietnam-vet father, Jim.  Sure, it’s derivative as hell and thoroughly predictable (with more than one big twist you can see coming a mile away), but the pace is brisk, the atmosphere pregnant with a palpable doomed urgency, and the creatures themselves are a genuinely convincing world-ending threat, the design team and visual effects wizards creating genuine nightmare fuel in the feral and unrelenting Whitespikes.  Altogether this WAS an ideal way to spend a comfy Saturday night in, but I think it could have been JUST AS GOOD for a Saturday night OUT at the Pictures …

8.  ARMY OF THE DEAD – another high profile release that went straight to streaming was this genuine monster hit for Netflix from one of this century’s undeniable heavyweight action cinema masters, the indomitable Zack Snyder, who kicked off his career with an audience-dividing (but, as far as I’m concerned, ultimately MASSIVELY successful) remake of George Romero’s immortal Dawn of the Dead, and has finally returned to zombie horror after close to two decades away.  The end result is, undeniably, the biggest cinematic guilty pleasure of the entire summer, a bona fide outbreak horror EPIC in spite of its tightly focused story – Dave Bautista plays mercenary Scott Ward, leader a badass squad of soldiers of fortune who were among the few to escape a deadly outbreak of a zombie virus in the city of Las Vegas, enlisted to break into the vault of one of the Strip’s casinos by owner Bly Tanaka (a fantastically game turn from Hiroyuki Sanada) and rescue $200 million still locked away inside.  So what’s the catch?  Vegas remains ground zero for the outbreak, walled off from the outside world but still heavily infested within, and in less than three days the US military intends to sterilise the site with a tactical nuke.  Simple premise, down and dirty, trashy flick, right?  Wrong – Snyder has never believed in doing things small, having brought us unapologetically BIG cinema with the likes of 300, Watchmen, Man of Steel and, most notably, his version of Justice League, so this is another MASSIVE undertaking, every scene shot for maximum thrills or emotional impact, each set-piece executed with his characteristic militaristic precision and explosive predilection (a harrowing fight for survival against a freshly-awakened zombie horde in tightly packed casino corridors is the film’s undeniable highlight), and the gauzy, dreamlike cinematography gives even simple scenes an intriguing and evocative edge that really does make you feel like you’re watching something BIG.  The characters all feel larger-than-life too – Bautista can seem somewhat cartoonish at times, and this role definitely plays that as a strength, making Scott a rock-hard alpha male in the classic Hollywood mould, but he’s such a great actor that of course he’s able to invest the character with real rewarding complexity beneath the surface; Ana de la Reguera (Eastbound & Down) and Nora Arnezeder (Zoo, Mozart in the Jungle), meanwhile, both bring a healthy dose of oestrogen-fuelled badassery to proceedings as, respectively, Scott’s regular second-in-command, Maria Cruz, and Lilly the Coyote, Power’s Omari Hardwick and Matthias Schweighofer (You Are Wanted) make for a fun odd-couple double act as circular-saw-wielding merc Vanderohe and Dieter, the nervous, nerdy German safecracker brought in to crack the vault, and Fear the Walking Dead’s Garrett Dillahunt channels spectacular scumbag energy as Tanaka’s sleazy former casino boss Martin, while latecomer Tig Notaro (Star Trek Discovery) effortlessly rises above her last-minute-casting controversy to deliver brilliantly as sassy and acerbic chopper pilot Peters.  I think it goes without saying that Snyder can do this in his sleep, but he definitely wasn’t napping here – he pulled out all the stops on this one, delivering a thrilling, darkly comic and endearingly CRACKERS zombie flick that not only compares favourably to his own Dawn but is, undeniably, his best film for AGES.  Netflix certainly seem to be pleased with the results – a spinoff prequel, Army of Thieves, starring Dieter in another heist thriller, is set to drop in October, with an animated series following in the Spring, and there’s already rumours of a sequel in development.  I’m certainly up for more …

7.  BLACK WIDOW – no major blockbuster property was hit harder by COVID than the MCU, which saw its ENTIRE SLATE for 2020 delayed for over a year in the face of Marvel Studios bowing to the inevitability of the Pandemic and unwilling to sacrifice those all-important box-office receipts by just sending their films straight to streaming.  The most frustrating part for hardcore fans of the series was the delay of a standalone film that was already criminally overdue – the solo headlining vehicle of founding Avenger and bona fide female superhero ICON Natasha Romanoff, aka the Black Widow.  Equally frustratingly, then, this film seems set to be overshadowed by real life controversy as star and producer Scarlett Johansson goes head-to-head with Disney in civil court over their breach-of-contract after they hedged their bets by releasing the film simultaneously in cinemas and on their own streaming platform, which has led to poor box office as many of the film’s potential audience chose to watch it at home instead of risk movie theatres with the virus still very much remaining a threat (and Disney have clearly reacted AGAIN, now backtracking on their release policy by instigating a new 45-day cinematic exclusivity window on all their big releases for the immediate future). But what of the film itself?  Well Black Widow is an interesting piece of work, director Cate Shortland (Berlin Syndrome) and screenwriter Eric Pearson (Thor: Ragnarok) delivering a decidedly stripped-back, lean and intellectual beast that bears greater resemblance to the more cerebral work of the Russo Brothers on their Captain America films than the more classically bombastic likes of Iron Man, Thor or the Avengers flicks, concentrating on story and characters over action and spectacle as we wind back the clock to before the events of Infinity War and Endgame, when Romanoff was on the run after Civil War, hunted by the government-appointed forces of US Secretary of State “Thunderbolt” Ross (William Hurt) after violating the Sokovia Accords.  Then a mysterious delivery throws her back into the fray as she finds herself targeted by a mysterious assassin, forcing her to team up with her estranged “sister” Yelena Belova (Midsommar’s Florence Pugh), another Black Widow who’s just gone rogue from the same Red Room Natasha escaped years ago, armed with a McGuffin capable of foiling a dastardly plot for world domination.  The reluctant duo need help in this endeavour though, enlisting the aid of their former “parents”, veteran Widow and scientist Melina Vostokoff (Rachel Weisz) and Alexie Shostakov (Stranger Things’ David Harbour), aka the Red Guardian, a Russian super-soldier intended to be their counterpart to Captain America, who’s been languishing in a Siberian gulag for the last twenty years. After the Earth-shaking, universe-changing events of recent MCU events, this film certainly feels like a much more self-contained, modest affair, playing for much smaller stakes, but that doesn’t mean it’s any less worthy of our attention – this is as precision-crafted as anything we’ve seen from Marvel so far, but it also feels like a refreshing change of pace after all those enormous cosmic shenanigans, while the script is as tight as a drum, propelling a taut, suspense-filled thriller that certainly doesn’t scrimp on the action front.  Sure, the set-pieces are very much in service of the story here, but they’re still the pre-requisite MCU rollercoaster rides, a selection of breathless chases and bone-crunching fights that really do play to the strengths of one of our favourite Avengers, but this is definitely one of those films where the real fireworks come when the film focuses on the characters – Johansson is so comfortable with her character she’s basically BECOME Natasha Romanoff, kickass and ruthless and complex and sassy and still just desperate for a family (though she hides it well throughout the film), while Weisz delivers one of her best performances in years as a peerless professional who keeps her emotions tightly reigned in but slowly comes to realise that she was never more happy than when she was pretending to be a simple mother, and Ray Winstone does a genuinely fantastic job of taking a character who could have been one of the MCU’s most disappointingly bland villains, General Dreykov, master of the Red Room, and investing him with enough oily charisma and intense presence to craft something truly memorable (frustratingly, the same cannot be said for the film’s supposed main physical threat, Taskmaster, who performs well in their frustratingly brief appearances but ultimately gets Darth Maul levels of short service).  The true scene-stealers in the film, however, are Alexie and Yelena – Harbour’s clearly having the time of his life hamming it up as a self-important, puffed-up peacock of a superhero who never got his shot and is clearly (rightly) decidedly bitter about it, preferring to relive the life he SHOULD have had instead of remembering the good in the one he got; Pugh, meanwhile, is THE BEST THING IN THE WHOLE MOVIE, easily matching Johanssen scene-for-scene in the action stakes but frequently out-performing her when it comes to acting, investing Yelena with a sweet naivety and innocence and a certain amount of quirky geekiness that makes for one of the year’s most endearing female protagonists (certainly one who, if the character goes the way I think she will, is thoroughly capable of carrying the torch for the foreseeable future).  In the end this is definitely one of the LEAST typical, by-the-numbers MCU films to date, and by delivering something a little different I think they’ve given us just the kind of leftfield swerve the series needs right now.  It’s certainly one of their most fascinating and rewarding films so far, and since it seems to be Johansson’s final tour of duty as the Black Widow, it’s also a most fitting farewell indeed.

6.  WRATH OF MAN – Guy Ritchie’s latest (regarded by many as a triumphant return to form, which I consider unfair since I don’t think he ever went away, especially after 2020’s spectacular The Gentlemen) is BY FAR his darkest film – let’s get this clear from the start.  Anyone who knows his work knows that Ritchie consistently maintains a near flawless balance and humour and seriousness in his films that gives them a welcome quirkiness that is one of his most distinctive trademarks, so for him to suddenly deliver a film which takes itself SO SERIOUSLY is one hell of a departure.  This is a film which almost REVELS in its darkness – Ritchie’s always loved bathing in man’s baser instincts, but Wrath of Man almost makes a kind of twisted VIRTUE out of wallowing in the genuine evils that men are capable of inflicting on each other.  The film certainly kicks off as it means to go on – In a tour-de-force single-shot opening, we watch a daring armoured car robbery on the streets of Los Angeles that goes horrifically wrong, an event which will have devastating consequences in the future.  Five months later, Fortico Security hires taciturn Brit Patrick Hill (Jason Statham) to work as a guard in one of their trucks, and on his first run he single-handedly foils another attempted robbery with genuinely uncanny combat skills. The company is thrilled, amazed by the sheer ability of their new hire, but Hill’s new colleagues are more concerned, wondering exactly what they’ve let themselves in for.  After a second foiled robbery, it becomes clear that Hill’s reputation has grown, but fellow guard Haiden (Holt McCallany), aka “Bullet”, begins to suspect there might be something darker going on … Ritchie is firing on all cylinders here, delivering a PERFECT slow-burn suspense thriller which plays its cards close to its chest and cranks up its piano wire tension with artful skill as it builds to a devastating, knuckle-whitening explosive heist that acts as a cathartic release for everything that’s built up over the past hour and a half.  In typical Ritchie style the narrative is non-linear, the story unfolding in four distinct parts told from clearly differentiated points of view, allowing the clues to be revealed at a trickle that effortlessly draws the viewer in as they fall deeper down the rabbit hole, leading to a harrowing but strangely poignant denouement which is perfectly in tune with everything that’s come before. It’s an immense pleasure finally getting to see Statham working with Ritchie again, and I don’t think he’s ever been better than he is here – he's always been a brilliantly understated actor, but there’s SO MUCH going on under Hill’s supposedly impenetrable calm that every little peek beneath the armour is a REVELATION; McCallany, meanwhile, has landed his best role since his short but VERY sweet supporting turn in Fight Club, seemingly likeable and fallible as the kind of easy-going co-worker anyone in the service industry would be THRILLED to have, but giving Bullet far more going on under the surface, while there are uniformly excellent performances from a top-shelf ensemble supporting cast which includes Josh Hartnett, Jeffrey Donovan (Burn Notice, Sicario), Andy Garcia, Laz Alonso (The Boys), Eddie Marsan, Niamh Algar (Raised By Wolves) and Darrell D’Silva (Informer, Domina), and a particularly edgy and intense turn from Scott Eastwood.  This is one of THE BEST thrillers of the year, by far, a masterpiece of mood, pace and plot that ensnares the viewer from its gripping opening and hooks them right up to the close, a triumph of the genre and EASILY Guy Ritchie’s best film since Snatch.  Regardless of whether or not it’s a RETURN to form, we can only hope he continues to deliver fare THIS GOOD in the future …

5.  FEAR STREET (PARTS 1-3) – Netflix have gotten increasingly ambitious with their original filmmaking over the years, and some of this years’ offerings have reached new heights of epic intention.  Their most exciting release of the summer was this adaptation of popular children’s horror author R.L. Stine’s popular book series, a truly gargantuan undertaking as the filmmakers set out to create an entire TRILOGY of films which were then released over three consecutive weekends.  Interestingly, these films are most definitely NOT for kids – this is proper, no-holds-barred supernatural slasher horror, delivering highly calibrated shocks and precision jump scares, a pervading atmosphere of insidious dread and a series of inventively gruesome kills.  The story revolves around two neighbouring small towns which have had vastly different fortunes over more than three centuries of existence – while the residents of Sunnyvale are unusually successful, living idyllic lives in peace and prosperity, luck has always been against the people of Shadyside, who languish in impoverishment, crime and misfortune, while the town has become known as the Murder Capital of the USA due to frequent spree killings.  Some attribute this to the supposed curse of a local urban legend, Sarah Fier, who became known as the Fier Witch after her execution for witchcraft in 1668, but others dismiss this as simple superstition.  Part 1 is set in 1994, as the latest outbreak of serial mayhem begins in Shadyside, dragging a small group of local teens – Deena Johnson (She Never Died’s Kiana Madeira) and Samantha Fraser (Olivia Scott Welch), a young lesbian couple going through a difficult breakup, Deena’s little brother Josh (The Haunted Hathaways’ Benjamin Flores Jr.), a nerdy history geek who spends most of his time playing video games or frequenting violent crime-buff online chatrooms, and their delinquent friends Simon (Eight Grade’s Fred Hechinger) and Kate (Julia Rehwald) – into the age-old ghostly conspiracy as they find themselves besieged by indestructible undead serial killers from the town’s past, reasoning that the only way they can escape with their lives is to solve the mystery and bring the Fier Witch some much needed closure.  Part 2, meanwhile, flashes back to a previous outbreak in 1977, in which local sisters Ziggy (Stranger Things’ Sadie Sink) and Cindy Berman (Emily Rudd), together with future Sunnyvale sheriff Nick Goode (Ted Sutherland) were among the kids hunted by said killers during a summer camp “colour war”.  As for Part 3, that goes all the way back to 1668 to tell the story of what REALLY happened to Sarah Fier, before wrapping up events in 1994, culminating in a terrifying, adrenaline-fuelled showdown in the Shadyside Mall.  Throughout, the youthful cast are EXCEPTIONAL, Madeira, Welch, Flores Jr., Sink and Rudd particularly impressing, while there are equally strong turns from Ashley Zuckerman (The Code, Designated Survivor) and Community’s Gillian Jacobs as the grown-up versions of two key ’77 kids, and a fun cameo from Maya Hawke in Part 1.  This is most definitely retro horror in the Stranger Things mould, perfectly executed period detail bringing fun nostalgic flavour to all three of the timelines while the peerless direction from Leigh Janiak (Honeymoon) and wire-tight, sharp-witted screenplays from Janiak, Kyle Killen (Lone Star, The Beaver), Phil Graziadel, Zak Olkewicz and Kate Trefry strike a perfect balance between knowing dark humour and knife-edged terror, as well as weaving an intriguingly complex narrative web that pulls the viewer in but never loses them to overcomplication.  The design, meanwhile, is evocative, the cinematography (from Stanger Things’ Caleb Heymann) is daring and magnificently moody, and the killers and other supernatural elements of the film are handled with skill through largely physical effects.  This is definitely not a standard, by-the-numbers slasher property, paying strong homage to the sub-genre’s rules but frequently subverting them with expert skill, and it’s as much fun as it is frightening.  Give us some more like this please, Netflix!

4.  THE SPARKS BROTHERS – those who’ve been following my reviews for a while will known that while I do sometimes shout about documentary films, they tend to show up in my runners-up lists – it’s a great rarity for one to land in one of my top tens.  This lovingly crafted deep-dive homage to cult band Sparks, from self-confessed rabid fanboy Edgar Wright (Shaun of the Dead, Hot Fuzz, Scott Pilgrim), is something VERY SPECIAL INDEED, then … there’s a vague possibility some of you may have heard the name before, and many of you will know at least one or two of their biggest hits without knowing it was them (their greatest hit of all time, This Town Ain’t Big Enough for the Both of Us, immediately springs to mind), but unless you’re REALLY serious about music it’s quite likely you have no idea who they are, namely two brothers from California, Russell and Ronald Mael, who formed a very sophisticated pop-rock band in the late 60s and then never really went away, having moments of fame but mostly working away in the background and influencing some of the greatest bands and musical artists that followed them, even if many never even knew where that influence originally came from. Wright’s film is an engrossing joy from start to finish (despite clocking in at two hours and twenty minutes), following their eclectic career from obscure inception as Halfnelson, through their first real big break with third album Kimono My Place, subsequent success and then fall from popularity in the mid-70s, through several subsequent revitalisations, all the way up to the present day with their long-awaited cinematic breakthrough, revolutionary musical feature Annette – throughout Wright keeps the tone light and the pace breezy, allowing a strong and endearing sense of irreverence to rule the day as fans, friends and the brothers themselves offer up fun anecdotes and wax lyrical about what is frequently a larger-than-life tragicomic soap opera, utilising fun, crappy animation and idiosyncratic stock footage inserts alongside talking-head interviews that were made with a decidedly tongue-in-cheek style – Mike Myers good-naturedly rants about how we can see his “damned mole” while 80s New Romantic icons Nick Rhodes and John Taylor, while shot together, are each individually labelled as “Duran”.  Ron and Russ themselves, meanwhile, are clearly having huge fun, gently ribbing each other and dropping some fun deadpan zingers throughout proceedings, easily playing to the band’s strong, idiosyncratic sense of hyper-intelligent humour, while the aforementioned celebrity talking-heads are just three amongst a whole wealth of famous faces that may surprise you – there’s even an appearance by Neil Gaiman, guys!  Altogether this is 2+ hours of bright and breezy fun chock full of great music and fascinating information, and even hardcore Sparks fans are likely to learn more than a little over the course of the film, while for those who have never heard of Sparks before it’s a FANTASTIC introduction to one of the greatest ever bands that you’ve never heard of.  With luck there might even be more than a few new fans before the year is out …

3.  GUNPOWDER MILKSHAKE – Netflix’ BEST offering of the summer was this surprise hit from Israeli writer-director Navot Papushado (Rabies, Big Bad Wolves), a heavily stylised black comedy action thriller that passes the Bechdel Test with FLYING COLOURS.  Playing like a female-centric John Wick, it follows ice-cold, on-top-of-her-game assassin Sam (Karen Gillan) as her latest assignment has some unfortunate side effects, leading her to take on a reparation job to retrieve some missing cash for the local branch of the Irish Mob.  The only catch is that a group of thugs have kidnapped the original thief’s little girl, 12 year-old Emily (My Spy’s Chloe Coleman), and Sam, in an uncharacteristic moment of sympathy, decides to intervene, only for the money to be accidentally destroyed in the process.  Now she’s got the Mob and her own employers coming after her, and she not only has to save her own skin but also Emily’s, leading her to seek help from the one person she thought she might never see again – her mother, Scarlet (Lena Headey), a master assassin in her own right who’s been hiding from the Mob herself for years.  The plot may be simple but at times also a little over-the-top, but the film is never anything less than a pure, unadulterated pleasure, populated with fascinating, living and breathing characters of real complexity and nuance, while the script (co-written by relative newcomer Ehud Lavski) is tightly-reined and bursting with zingers.  Most importantly, though, Papushado really delivers on the action front – these are some of the best set-pieces I’ve seen this year, Gillan, her co-stars and the various stunt-performers acquitting themselves admirably in a series of spectacular fights, gun battles and a particularly imaginative car chase that would be the envy of many larger, more expensive productions.  Gillan and Coleman have a sweet, awkward chemistry, the MCU star particularly impressing in a subtly nuanced performance that also plays beautifully against Headey’s own tightly controlled turn, while there is awesome support from Angela Bassett, Michelle Yeoh and Carla Gugino as Sam’s adoptive aunts Anna May, Florence and Madeleine, a trio of “librarians” who run a fine side-line in illicit weaponry and are capable of unleashing some spectacular violence of their own; the film’s antagonists, on the other hand, are exclusively masculine – the mighty Ralph Inneson is quietly ruthless as Irish boss Jim McAlester, while The Terror’s Adam Nagaitis is considerably more mercurial as his mad dog nephew Virgil, and Paul Giamatti is the stately calm at the centre of the storm as Sam’s employer Nathan, the closest thing she has to a father.  There’s so much to enjoy in this movie, not just the wonderful characters and amazing action but also the singularly engrossing and idiosyncratic style, deeply affecting themes of the bonds of found family and the healing power of forgiveness, and a rewarding through-line of strong women triumphing against the brutalities of toxic masculinity.  I love this film, and I invite you to try it out, cuz I’m sure you will too.

2.  THE SUICIDE SQUAD – the most fun I’ve had at the cinema so far this year is the long-awaited (thanks a bunch, COVID) redress of another frustrating imbalance from the decidedly hit and miss DCEU superhero franchise, in which Guardians of the Galaxy writer-director James Gunn has finally delivered a PROPER Suicide Squad movie after David Ayer’s painfully compromised first stab at the property back in 2016.  That movie was enjoyable enough and had some great moments, but ultimately it was a clunky mess, and while some of the characters were done (quite) well, others were painfully botched, even ruined entirely.  Thankfully Warner Bros. clearly learned their lesson, giving Gunn free reign to do whatever he wanted, and the end result is about as close to perfect as the DCEU has come to date.  Once again the peerless Viola Davis plays US government official Amanda Waller, head of ARGUS and the undisputable most evil bitch in all the DC Universe, who presides over the metahuman prisoners of the notorious supermax Belle Reve Prison, cherry-picking inmates for her pet project Taskforce X, the titular Suicide Squad sent out to handle the kind of jobs nobody else wants, in exchange for years off their sentences but controlled by explosive implants injected into the base of their skulls.  Their latest mission sees another motley crew of D-bags dispatched to the fictional South African island nation of Corto Maltese to infiltrate Jotunheim, a former Nazi facility in which a dangerous extra-terrestrial entity that’s being developed into a fearful bioweapon, with orders to destroy the project in order to keep it out of the hands of a hostile anti-American regime which has taken control of the island through a violent coup.  Where the first Squad felt like a clumsily-arranged selection of stereotypes with a few genuinely promising characters unsuccessfully moulded into a decidedly forced found family, this new batch are convincingly organic – they may be dysfunctional and they’re all almost universally definitely BAD GUYS, but they WORK, the relationship dynamics that form between them feeling genuinely earned.  Gunn has already proven himself a master of putting a bunch of A-holes together and forging them into band of “heroes”, and he’s certainly pulled the job off again here, dredging the bottom of the DC Rogues Gallery for its most ridiculous Z-listers and somehow managing to make them compelling.  Sure, returning Squad-member Harley Quinn (the incomparable Margot Robbie, magnificent as ever) has already become a fully-realised character thanks to Birds of Prey, so there wasn’t much heavy-lifting to be done here, but Gunn genuinely seems to GET the character, so our favourite pixie-esque Agent of Chaos is an unbridled and thoroughly unpredictable joy here, while fellow veteran Colonel Rick Flagg (a particularly muscular and thoroughly game Joel Kinnaman) has this time received a much needed makeover, Gunn promoting him from being the first film’s sketchily-drawn “Captain Exposition” and turning him into a fully-ledged, well-thought-out human being with all the requisite baggage, including a newfound sense of humour; the newcomers, meanwhile, are a thoroughly fascinating bunch – reluctant “leader” Bloodsport/Robert DuBois (a typically robust and playful Idris Elba), unapologetic douchebag Peacemaker/Christopher Smith (probably the best performance I’ve EVER seen John Cena deliver), and socially awkward and seriously hard-done-by nerd (and by far the most idiotic DC villain of all time) the Polka-Dot Man/Abner Krill (a genuinely heart-breaking hangdog performance from Ant-Man’s David Dastmalchian); meanwhile there’s a fine trio of villainous turns from the film’s resident Big Bads, with Juan Diego Botta (Good Behaviour) and Joaquin Cosio (Quantum of Solace, Narcos: Mexico) making strong impressions as newly-installed dictator Silvio Luna and his corrupt right hand-man General Suarez, although both are EASILY eclipsed by the typically brilliant Peter Capaldi as louche and quietly deranged supervillain The Thinker/Gaius Greives (although the film’s ULTIMATE threat turns out to be something a whole lot bigger and more exotic). The film is ROUNDLY STOLEN, however, by a truly adorable double act (or TRIPLE act, if you want to get technical) – Daniella Melchior makes her breakthrough here in fine style as sweet, principled and kind-hearted narcoleptic second-generation supervillain Ratcatcher II/Cleo Cazo, who has the weird ability to control rats (and who has a pet rat named Sebastian who frequently steals scenes all on his own), while a particular fan-favourite B-lister makes his big screen debut here in the form of King Shark/Nanaue, a barely sentient anthropomorphic Great White “shark god” with an insatiable appetite for flesh and a naturally quizzical nature who was brilliantly mo-capped by Steve Agee (The Sarah Silverman Project, who also plays Waller’s hyperactive assistant John Economos) but then artfully completed with an ingenious vocal turn from Sylvester Stallone. James Gunn has crafted an absolute MASTERPIECE here, EASILY the best film he’s made to date, a riotous cavalcade of exquisitely observed and perfectly delivered dark humour and expertly wrangled narrative chaos that has great fun playing with the narrative flow, injects countless spot-on in-jokes and irreverent but utterly essential throwaway sight-gags, and totally endears us to this glorious gang of utter morons right from the start (in which Gunn delivers what has to be one of the most skilful deep-fakes in cinematic history).  Sure, there’s also plenty of action, and it’s executed with the kind of consummate skill we’ve now come to expect from Gunn (the absolute highlight is a wonderfully bonkers sequence in which Harley expertly rescues herself from captivity), but like everything else it’s predominantly played for laughs, and there’s no getting away from the fact that this film is an absolute RIOT.  By far the funniest thing I’ve seen so far this year, and if I’m honest this is the best of the DCEU offerings to date, too (for me, only the exceptional Birds of Prey can compare) – if Warner Bros. have any sense they’ll give Gunn more to do VERY SOON …

1.  A QUIET PLACE, PART II – while UK cinemas finally reopened in early May, I was determined that my first trip back to the Big Screen for 2021 was gonna be something SPECIAL, and indeed I already knew what that was going to be. Thankfully I was not disappointed by my choice – 2018’s A Quiet Place was MY VERY FAVOURITE horror movie of the 2010s, an undeniable masterclass in suspense and sustained screen terror wrapped around a refreshingly original killer concept, and I was among the many fans hoping we’d see more in the future, especially after the film’s teasingly open ending.  Against the odds (or perhaps not), writer-director/co-star John Krasinski has pulled off the seemingly impossible task of not only following up that high-wire act, but genuinely EQUALLING it in levels of quality – picking up RIGHT where the first film left off (at least after an AMAZING scene-setting opening in which we’re treated to the events of Day 1 of the downfall of humanity), rejoining the remnants of the Abbott family as they’re forced by circumstances to up-sticks from their idyllic farmhouse home and strike out into the outside world once more, painfully aware at all times that they must maintain perfect silence to avoid the ravenous attentions of the lethal blind alien beasties that now sit at the top of the food chain.  Circumstances quickly become dire, however, and embattled mother Evelyn (Emily Blunt) is forced to ally herself with estranged family friend Emmett (Cillian Murphy), now a haunted, desperate vagrant eking out a perilous existence in an abandoned factory, in order to safeguard the future of her children Regan (Millicent Simmonds), Marcus (Noah Jupe) and their newborn baby brother.  Regan, however, discovers evidence of more survivors, and with her newfound weapon against the aliens she recklessly decides to set off on her own in the hopes of aiding them before it’s too late … it may only be his second major blockbuster as a director, but Krasinski has once again proven he’s a true heavyweight talent, effortlessly carving out fresh ground in this already magnificently well-realised dystopian universe while also playing magnificently to the established strengths of what came before, delivering another peerless thrill-ride of unbearable tension and knuckle-whitening terror.  The central principle of utilising sound at a very strict premium is once again strictly adhered to here, available sources of dialogue once again exploited with consummate skill while sound design and score (another moody triumph from Marco Beltrami) again become THE MOST IMPORTANT aspects of the whole production. The ruined world is once again realised beautifully throughout, most notably in the nightmarish environment of a wrecked commuter train, and Krasinski cranks up the tension before unleashing it in merciless explosions in a selection of harrowing encounters which guaranteed to leave viewers in a puddle of sweat.  The director mostly stays behind the camera this time round, but he does (obviously) put in an appearance in the opening flashback as the late Lee Abbott, making a potent impression which leaves a haunting absence that’s keenly felt throughout the remainder of the film, while Blunt continues to display mother lion ferocity as she fights to keep her children safe and Jupe plays crippling fear magnificently but is now starting to show a hidden spine of steel as Marcus finally starts to find his courage; the film once again belongs, however, to Simmonds, the young deaf actress once and for all proving she’s a genuine star in the making as she invests Regan with fierce wilfulness and stubborn determination that remains unshakeable even in the face of unspeakable horrors, and the relationship she develops with Emmett, reluctant as it may be, provides a strong new emotional focus for the story, Murphy bringing an attractive wounded humanity to his role as a man who’s lost anything and is being forced to learn to care for something again.  This is another triumph of the genre AND the artform in general, a masterpiece of atmosphere, performance and storytelling which builds magnificently on the skilful foundations laid by the first film, as well as setting things up perfectly for a third instalment which is all but certain to follow.  I definitely can’t wait.

[docbrownstudies]

Hi! I just discovered your page and it is so nice to know someone is in the film industry. I would like to know about the experience in college in the film major and how is it different from what people think it is?

hi friend! i’m so glad you discovered my blog and i hope it inspires you to study hard and watch more films :)

i’ll speak on my film school experience, but just know - this is my experience, and might not accurately represent other colleges, other programs, etc. i attended a film school in florida, which will probably be a vastly different experience to one in, for example, a massive film-centric state like california. just take that into consideration! 

i knew very little about filmmaking when i entered the program. i was a mainstream movie goer, watching big blockbusters and disney movies - not at all aware of any indie filmmakers or any less-than-mainstream content. in my experience, that was seen by my fellow film students as bad, as a negative, as something frowned upon. if you weren’t hyper aware of every small production, or every alternative director and their work, you weren’t at the same caliber and you were taken less seriously.

the stereotype about some film students being ‘elitist’ about the content they consume (in my opinion) is absolutely true. i rarely felt included in discussions in class because i felt ‘locked out’ of topics; the others in my class seemed to be on another level entirely. day one of every class, no matter which year i was in, seemed flooded with people bragging about 1) how much professional work they’d done, 2) how much they knew about filmmaking already, before the class had even begun, and 3) how much they loved (insert extremely unknown director).

i’m completely aware that a lot of this might be my own college insecurities, or me projecting them onto a confusing and intimidating environment, but what i’m trying to get at is that me, a beginner, a novice, an amateur, someone who knew nothing about film and hadn’t studied it for years and years before entering film school, was made to feel like a complete and utter outsider during every class i attended. it was always assumed that you knew as much as everyone else. it was always assumed that everyone in class was on the same level - professors just assumed you knew the cinematographer they were talking about, even though you’d never heard their name in your life. it felt like i’d missed 10+ classes. it felt like everyone around me had already buried themselves in the terminology, in all the lingo and complicated film concepts, and if i raised my hand and asked a ‘dumb’ question (not REALLY dumb - just a basic, fundamental question about something), i’d be immediately judged for not knowing the basics.

because of this, i, personally, had to do a lot of work outside of class. i watched tons of movies. i consumed so many filmmaking youtube videos, and took tons of notes, and spent weekends wandering the movie section of our campus library. i had to teach myself the basics to try and get on their level. my campus library had a section of actual movie and tv show scripts, and i’d check a few out and sit at my desk in my dorm room with my laptop and read along with the movie or show as it played, following along with the script.

i learned a ton in film school, but a lot of it was self-taught, and a lot of it happened outside of the classroom - on student film sets, especially. that’s not necessarily BAD; it’s just not what i expected film school would be like.

maybe learning on my own and being ‘left in the dust’ helped me grow as a person? maybe it was a good thing, overall? i just have a mildly sour taste in my mouth when i think about how pathetic i felt in most film classes, how behind i felt, how excluded. might be a me problem, but that’s how i felt, and i think my feelings here are somewhat valid.

the experience OVERALL was positive, because there were great professors and students who understood, and who taught well and learned well and were on the same page as i was, and i had friends to study and learn with, friends who knew what i meant and cared about what i said. and i DO use what i learned in school at work every day. it just sucks that it had to happen through this mildly elitist avenue.

i just word vomited a lot, but i hope that paints an honest picture of my experience. i didn’t want to sugarcoat it. but also... this was my situation. someone else might enter film school and have a fucking blast and enjoy every moment and learn so much and be treated respectfully by their peers and just adore everything they did. so take my experience as one little drop in the pond of the overall picture!!!!

[williamcohen]

( EWAN MCGREGOR + CISMALE ) — Have you seen WILLIAM COHEN ? This FORTY-NINE year old is a/an FILM DIRECTOR who resides in MANHATTAN. HE has/have been living in NYC for ELEVEN YEARS, and is/are known to be DEDICATED and RELIABLE , but can also be STUBBORN and OVERPROTECTIVE, if you cross them. People tend to associate them with DAD JOKES, WARM SMILES and SCRUFFY BEARD. @codstarters​

Hello everyone, my name is Julia but I go by Jules. I’m from est zone and I bring to you my goofy goober William Cohen with the lovely fc of Ewan McGregor. I apologize in advance if this sucks but I’m really bad at intros. Anyway, hit me up if you’d like to plot or give this post a like and I’ll come to you!

Career:

Born and raised in England. William developed an in interest for filmmaking from a young age and never really had an alternative for directing films . 

You could say that his love for filmmaking started thanks to Miss Rivers, a broadway and film enthusiast who loved to put on play every chance she had. And c’mon what child doesn't like to participate in a play? To put on a costume and pretend to be someone else? It was like a game for them. But for Will acting and putting on costumes wasn’t his favorite part, his favorite part was watch Miss Rivers direct and produce the whole thing. It was the making of the play, the behind the scenes that really intrigued him. Of course eventually, as the years passed he stopped acting at the plays and became his teacher’s assistant.

At this time William was filming everything he could, the school plays, his mother cooking, his father working, his siblings playing. He made his first film at the age of ten, an adaptation of one of his favorites books.

Through his whole teenage years everyone thought that William would’ve majored in something like arts, something related to filmmaking, but no. Everyone was surprised when he told his family and friends that he wanted to study English Literature. The reason he chose to study that its because he felt that studying something unrelated would give him a different take on things.

While attending college William started working as script reader, camera operator and even production assistant in television, films and music videos.For years he worked on his own short films but it was during around of his career he had made little or no success getting his projects of the ground.

In 2000, he met with a friend from college and together released their first feature, he directed, photographed and edited the film while his friend wrote the script. They didn’t have any expectations but finally William could see the light at the end of the tunnel. Their film won several awards during its festival run and was well received by critics. Thanks to the film’s success William afforded to make another one, which became his breakthrough. 

After his breakthrough fellow directors and screenwriters recruited him for more projects, and slowly he started to gain more international recognition and transitioned from independent to studio filmmaking and gained further critical and commercial success with his new films.

Personal life:

So like I mentioned before, he is from England. Born in a high-middle class family. He is the second of three children. I picture his family very tight knit, very loving and supportive of everyones dreams.

He used to be married, he’s been divorced for 7 years now. He met his wife during college and even though they are no longer married, he still considers her to this day the love of his life. They met when he was 22 and majoring in English Literature through some mutual friends. You could say that it was love at first sight, or at least just in William’s case. Whenever he talks about how they met he always says that from the moment he saw her he knew that she was the one, that he had met his future wife. They dated around a year before William finally had the courage to pop the question and asked her to be his wife. Their marriage lasted 20 beautiful years and gave birth to 2 beautiful and healthy children. 

For many years everything seem to be working out for William, he had a beautiful family and he was finally gaining recognition. Unfortunately what goes up  eventually must come down. While he started to gain more international recognition it required him to travel a lot and leave his family behind every time he was working on a new project. For a few years they tried to make things work out between them, and even bought a house in NYC thinking that it would solve their problems, boy was he mistaken. For a brief moment it seemed that things were going to even living under the same roof there was a distance between him and his wife, things just weren't what they used to be. So after a few months of living together in New York they both of them decided that the best thing would be to get a divorce. For their sake and the sake of their children. 

So now he’s been divorced for almost 7 years, of course he’s dated and has had a few girlfriends but noting ever too serious. 

Personality:

Career wise he is very professional, dedicated and pretty much a perfectionist. 

He is just the sweetest and silliest person you could ever meet. 

He’s just the sweetest  and silliest person you could ever meet, I mean he is very charismatic and likable and sometimes can come off as childish or immature, specially when he’s around his children. He loooooves to embarrass them and make them feel uncomfortable with their friends.

He’s really laid back and always tries to see the good in people, so he is likely to form friendships with whoever approaches him.

He truly cares about people, that’s why he always ends up putting everyone’s needs before his own, specially when it comes to his friends and family.

He also tends to act first and think later, which has led him to some poor decisions in his life but even after he fucks up he somehow manages to make it work.

Last but not least, he’s a hopeless romantic and a true gentleman. Sometimes he can come off as a flirt but he would never dream of disrespecting a woman.

Connections:

As far as connections go I want all of them, I would love for him to have some besties, brotps, some nephews or nieces, someone he knows from the showbiz world, someone who has worked with him in one of his films, exes, a love interest, it would also be interesting to have like a sugar baby, someone who uses him just for his money/fame, drinking buddies, frenemies, opposites attract, neighbors, he could be a good influence in someone. So yeah be sure to like this post and I’ll slide into your dm’s if you want to plot <3 !

[thisguyatthemovies]

In praise of ‘Skyfall’

The opening scenes of “Skyfall” – from Daniel Craig’s James Bond emerging from the shadows to the final notes of Adele’s theme song – last 16 minutes, 45 minutes. And they are the best 16 minutes, 45 seconds in any Bond movie. They are arguably the best opening 16 minutes, 45 seconds in any movie.

When “Skyfall” premiered in 2012, it was an important moment in a long-lasting but inconsistent and aging movie franchise. Craig had made his debut as Bond (or as some derisively called him, James Blonde, for having lighter hair than his predecessors) in 2006’s “Casino Royale,” and it was a stunning intro. The film, considered one of the best entries in franchise history, gave us a Bond that was brutal (as in the opening scene in a men’s room, filmed in wonderfully grainy black and white) but also had a heart (he falls in love with Vesper Lynd). Craig made it clear he was not your father’s (or grandfather’s) 007, and it was a breath of fresh air for a franchise that needed one after a string of mediocre Bond films.

But then, just two years later, came “Quantum of Solace,” a noticeable step backward. Director Marc Foster opted for more of an action movie approach, and the result was a film indistinguishable from many in the genre. Much of Bond’s charm was sidestepped, and no doubt the film’s cohesiveness was hampered by a writers’ strike during its making. Some critics put “Quantum of Solace” near or even at the bottom when ranking the Bond movies.

So, the 007 franchise was at a crossroads in the early 2010s. Another so-so film would be, to detractors, more proof that James Bond had outstayed his welcome, that he was a relic of a time gone by.

A bold, new approach was needed. And a bold, new approach was taken. Producers Michael G. Wilson and Barbara Broccoli made some important decisions after “Quantum of Solace,” the most important one being bringing in British director Sam Mendes, whose 1999 film “American Beauty” won the Best Picture Oscar. Many right moves followed, from hiring cinematographer Roger Deakins (“The Shawshank Redemption,” many Coen Brothers movies) to lining up a cast that was unusually stout for a Bond movie (including award-winning actors Judi Dench, Javier Bardem, Ralph Fiennes and Albert Finney). The makers also set out to make a Bond film that emphasized its British roots and paid homage to the series’ history while also bringing it solidly into the 2010s and making it more relatable to younger viewers.

The result was a special movie, not just by James Bond standards but by any measure of great films. And that was apparent in the first 16 minutes, 45 seconds of “Skyfall.”

“Skyfall” wastes no time getting down to business. It begins with a shadowy figure walking toward the camera. The audience does not realize it is Bond until his face reaches the sunlight and he draws a gun. He discovers a comrade has been shot, and an important computer hard drive has been stolen (technology and our use of it being one of the important themes). Bond wants to help his fellow agent, but “M” (Dench) is more concerned with the hard drive, and this is important in establishing her concern with country above all else.

Then the action begins, and it is breathtaking. Bond chases the bad guy (the one with the hard drive), Patrice (Ola Rapace), through the open-air markets of Istanbul, driven around by Eve Moneypenny (Naomie Harris), though we won’t know she is Moneypenny until the film’s ending. The chase shifts to motorcycles, first along rooftops, then inside the Grand Bazaar shopping mall, then back on streets before Bond purposely crashes his motorcycle into the side of a bridge, somersaults and somehow manages to grab on to a train boxcar below with just one arm. Caught your breath yet?

Bond uses a bulldozer (and gets shot while maneuvering it) to smash into the train and, in a nod to Bond tradition, adjusts his cuffs while entering the open end of a passenger car. He and Patrice fight on top of the train rolling through the Turkish countryside, ducking to get through tunnels, until Moneypenny, who has followed alongside the train in a vehicle, is left with only one choice: shooting at the men and hoping she hits Patrice instead of 007.

Moneypenny complies with M’s orders (“Take the bloody shot!”) and hits Bond, who falls off and takes a long dive into the waters below. When Moneypenny reports to MI6 headquarters “agent down,” M turns to look out a window at a rainy London outside, and the sound of the rain morphs into Bond floating in river rapids, presumably dead like so many Bonds before him.

The lifeless body of 007 goes over a waterfall and plunges into the water just as the first brass notes kick off Adele’s theme song. It marks another brilliant choice by the filmmakers. Adele is British (the previous two Bond theme songs had been performed by Americans Chris Cornell and the duo of Alicia Keys and Jack White) and was at the height of her popularity, and she and fellow songwriter/producer Paul Epworth came up with a song that was, like the movie, both fresh but decidedly Bond.

The song is the stuff of goosebumps, especially as it plays over the titles sequence (another Bond tradition) by Daniel Kleinman. The sequence is visually stunning, the best in the history of the franchise, from a woman’s hand pulling the floating Bond into some unknown, fantastical place to the camera zooming in until it takes us all the way into Bond’s left eye. It’s all there: guns, beautiful women, blood, characters past and current, shadowy figures, hints of what is to come and, of course, Bond. It’s mesmerizing.

The opening 16 minutes, 45 minutes set a lofty bar, and for the most part “Skyfall” clears it. Dench is at her best, and that’s saying something. Bardem’s Silva is an intriguing, creepy and menacing villain. Harris and Ben Whishaw as “Q” breathe new life into important characters audiences expected to see. Craig, as an agent getting on in years but still driven by an uneasy love of country, recaptures the magic from “Casino Royale.” “Skyfall” is beautifully conceived and shot, and it hints at Christopher Nolan’s “The Dark Knight,” another film by a British director that preceded Mendes’ take on Bond by four years and, like “Skyfall,” was deserving (but did not get) a Best Picture nomination.

“Skyfall” is an important bridge between Bond’s past and present. Mendes could not capture lightning in a bottle twice (his follow-up “Spectre” being a solid middle-of-the-pack entry in the series), but he made the best of the Bond movies at a time when the franchise desperately needed it. And he and everyone involved made one incredible 16 minutes, 45 seconds of movie magic.

[dweemeister]

Best Live Action Short Film Nominees for the 92nd Academy Awards (2020, listed in order of appearance in the shorts package)

Since 2013 on this blog, I have been reviewing the Oscar-nominated short films for the respective Academy Awards ceremony. Normally, the Oscars are held on the last Sunday in February and we, the moviegoing public, are given more than a few weeks to seek out the nominated films. Not this year, as the ceremony was held at the earliest date ever (it reverts back to its usual starting date, the last Sunday in February, for the next two years starting in 2021).

There’s already been a winner in this category, but nevertheless here are the five nominated films for Best Live Action Short Film. Congratulations to Tunisia for two of the five entries, but all these shorts reflect the cinematic democracy that are the short film categories.

A Sister (2018, Belgium)

Also known by its original French title, Une soeur, A Sister is directed by Delphine Girard. It is the only piece among its fellow nominees that could be envisioned only as a short film. As such, its sixteen-minute runtime requires succinctness, the filmmaking as tightly wound as a clock. Late at night, a woman named Alie (Selma Alaoui) is sitting in the passenger seat asking the man (Guillaume Duhesme) for a cell phone so she can call her sister. We hear the first few seconds of this phone call. The screen cuts to black; next, we see a bustling room with numerous people gazing into computer screens, speaking to various people over headsets. We soon realize that Alie is dialing for an emergency call center. She is being kidnapped, and does not recognize the highway they are driving on. The operator (Veerle Baetens), confused by Alie’s coded language at first, eventually intuits what exactly is going on.

Alie and the operator exercise caution during these precarious minutes, as A Sister unravels in its teeth-grinding escalation of tension. Girard notes that the inspiration for A Sister came when she heard of a story of a young American woman calling 911, pretending that she was calling her sister – “it was the story of building a story of empathy and sorority that inspired [Girard].” Through meticulous research about protocols during emergency services calls that included interviews with said operators (who also made suggestions about draft screenplays), A Sister accomplishes a dramatic urgency that films with similar goals but last far longer never reach. The clever chronological edit in the film’s opening minutes contribute to that escalation; so too the decision to shoot from the backseat, obscuring Alie’s face to make the audience rely almost entirely on vocal delivery to understand her desperation and his paranoia (although the darkness of the surroundings can leave audiences confused in the opening minutes about who or what we are looking at). Not a second of A Sister is a wasted one.

My rating: 9/10

Brotherhood (2018, Tunisia/Canada/Qatar/Sweden)

Having made its rounds across the international film festival circuit, Meryam Joobeur’s Brotherhood is an international cross-stitch of a short film serving as an expression of Joobeur’s Tunisian roots. The film’s tragic outcome and dour tone throughout make is akin to Greek drama, where the ending feels predetermined and the characters – in what makes them essential – barely evolve. In a coastal, rural Tunisian town, a married couple and their two youngest sons make their living as sheep farmers. The landscape is rugged, their lives simple. One day, the eldest son – who has been missing for more than a year – returns home. With him is his teenage wife, wearing a full niqab, pregnant, and instantly attracting suspicion from the father. The eldest son and his wife met in Syria, where the former joined the so-called Islamic State (referred to by everyone else in the family by its acronym, Daesh – considered an insult to those affiliated with ISIS) out of desperation to flee his implicitly abusive father.

Brotherhood is indulgent in its languor, sometimes hanging onto certain shots well beyond necessary. Long cuts are welcome in cinema to allow the audience to meditate about what has just occurred; their emotional and philosophical implementation in Brotherhood is inconsistent. A constant use of close-ups and the film’s 4:3 screen aspect ratio reflect each parents’ stubbornness that their opinions about their situation is correct, that the eldest son’s belief that he is morally unblemished (he professes not to have killed, nor having been an accessory to killing another). The near-complete use of natural lighting - the overcast skies, the orange hues of older electric lights – lends the film authenticity. Joobeur, a Montreal-based filmmaker, has stated that she made Brotherhood to reclaim the humanity that the Muslim world has lost to the West since 9/11. From the red hair of the brothers, the ambiguity of the eldest son’s time in Syria, to the dramatic irony that closes the film, Brotherhood always challenges those views that Joobeur wishes to reclaim.

My rating: 7.5/10

The Neighbors’ Window (2019)

Marshall Curry is principally a documentary feature producer (2005′s Street Fight, 2017′s A Night in the Garden). The Neighbors’ Window, which he directed, is only his third narrative short film and, unfortunately, the final product is indicative of that – he has directed a handful of documentary features and shorts, but the techniques and lessons learned there are not always congruent to narrative short films. Here, mother Alli (Maria Dizzia) and father Jacob (Greg Keller) are New Yorkers with young children (early grade school and preschool age) who have settled into what they both feel has become a monotonous lifestyle. One evening, they see through their apartment window that, across the street, a younger couple have just taken up residence. Without pulling down any blinds and in their erotic euphoria, the younger couple start unpackaging (and this has nothing to do with moving boxes). Like Jimmy Stewart in Rear Window (1954) but without the murder, Jacob and especially Alli will occasionally peer into their new neighbors’ apartment to voyeuristically observe.

The Neighbors’ Window has little to say beyond its assertion the grass is always greener on the other side – it pains me to have written such a cliché. Other than basic editing, this is a film devoid of any aesthetic experimentation or narrative interest. The film’s plot twist, inspired by a true story heard on the podcast Love + Radio, is not strengthened by the lackluster acting. The supposed emotional catharsis that should emerge in the film’s final moments is simplistic – redeemed neither by said acting or the film’s questionable screenplay. It is, at worst, tasteless. The premise of The Neighbors’ Window is indeed worthy of cinematic treatment – perhaps even as a feature – but Curry is not up to the task.

My rating: 6/10

Saria (2019)

It is a fine line between politically-tinged narrative/documentary filmmaking and agitprop. Bryan Buckley’s Saria, a dramatization of the events that led to the deaths of 41 girls between fourteen and seventeen years old in a 2017 Guatemala orphanage fire, almost becomes exactly that. Saria (Estefanía Tellez) and her elder sister Ximena (Gabriela Ramírez) are orphans at the La Asunción Safe Home. It is a safe home only in name, as Saria, Ximena, and the many other girls housed in the orphanage are victims of staff abuse or human trafficking. Saria and Ximena dream of a life far from the girls’ dormitory at the orphanage, and there have been mumblings about a joint plan between the boys and girls at the orphanage to cause a diversion in order to begin an escape, en masse, on foot, to the United States. Given that Saria is based on a tragedy, there is only one resolution possible.

However, despite being confined to that horrific ending, the film endows its two central characters with distinct personalities and aspiration to the extent that it can. In its twenty-two minutes, Saria not only depicts the squalor and prison-like conditions of the safe home, but the desperate humanity of its subjects – as if taking a page from Italian neorealism, this film has orphaned children playing orphaned children, but the direction and writing behind their performances can be frustrating. Saria is somewhat hampered by its editing, as the emotional impact of the escape scene to the film’s final minutes feel rushed. The film’s pre-closing credits reveal – that Saria is indeed based on actual events and no one has ever been held accountable for the deaths of the forty-one girls – is harmed because of the film’s prosaic editing.

My rating: 8/10

Nefta Football Club (2018, Tunisia/France/Algeria)

On its face, Yves Piat’s Nefta Football Club – another transnational production set in Tunisia – has all the hallmarks of a film that spirals into a disastrous conclusion. Yet what instead transpires is a witty comedy that mostly adopts the point of view of its two child protagonists. Near the Tunisian-Algerian border, Mohamed (Eltayef Dhaoui) and Abdallah (Mohamed Ali Ayari) are soccer-obsessed brothers bickering over who is the best player in the world: Lionel Messi or Riyad Mahrez (personally, I have never heard Mahrez in that conversation, but noting that he is Algerian and almost certainly the greatest Middle Eastern or North African player in history, this sounds like a realistic conversation). While heading home, the boys encounter a donkey wearing headphones and carrying bags of white powder. They take the “laundry detergent” home for their mother, with the intention to sell the rest to their neighbors. Somewhere in the desert, two men are waiting for their delivery donkey to arrive.

Don’t worry, those two men will never have a clue whatever became of their delivery. Piat came up with the idea for Nefta Football Club while recalling childhood memories of him and his friend sneaking out of their house at night, finding white powders that they believed to be illicit materials, and dumping all of this into a body of water. Nefta Football Club showcases a loving, hilarious relationship between elder and younger brother, as well as the perspective divides of the eldest brother’s teenage calculation and the younger brother’s innocence. Their life station is never fully explored, nor is it ignored by Piat. Piat’s screenplay – based on believable misunderstandings that are based on the characters’ personalities – is well-executed, as evidenced by its fantastic final punchline.

My rating: 8/10

^ Based on my personal imdb ratings. Half-points are always rounded down.

From previous years: 85th Academy Awards (2013), 87th (2015), 88th (2016), 89th (2017), 90th (2018), and 91st (2019).

[chiseler]

The Chiseler Interviews Tim Lucas

Born in 1956, film historian, novelist and screenwriter Tim Lucas is the author of several books, including the award-winning Mario Bava: All the Colors of the Dark, The Book of Renfield: A Gospel of Dracula, and Throat Sprockets. He launched Video Watchdog magazine in 1990, and his screenplay, The Man With Kaleidoscope Eyes, has been optioned by Joe Dante. He lives in Cincinnati with his wife Donna. 

The following interview was conducted via email.

*

THE CHISELER: You're known for your longstanding love affair with horror films. Could you perhaps explain this allure they hold for you?

Tim Lucas: I suppose they’ve meant different things to me at different times of my life. When I was very young (and I started going to movies at my local theater alone, when I was about six), I was attracted to them as something fun but also as a means of overcoming my fears - I would sometimes go to see the same movie again until I could stop hiding my eyes, and I would often find out they showed me a good deal less than I saw behind my hands, so I learned that when I was hiding my eyes my own imagination took over. This encouraged me to look, but also to impose my own imagination on what I was seeing. Similarly, I remember flinching at pictures of various monsters in FAMOUS MONSTERS OF FILMLAND magazine, then realizing that, as I became able to stop flinching, to look more deeply into the pictures, I began to feel  compassion for Karloff’s Frankenstein Monster and admiration for Jack Pierce’s makeup. You could say that I learned some valuable life lessons from this: not to make snap judgements, not to hate or fear someone else because they looked different. I should also point out that beauty had the same intense effect on me as ugliness, in those early days at the movies. I was as frightened by the glowing light promising another appearance by the Blue Fairy in PINOCCHIO as I was by Stromboli or Monstro the Whale. I also covered my eyes when things, even colors, became too beautiful to bear.

As I got older, I found out that horror, science fiction, and fantasy films often told the unpleasant truths about our world, our government, our politics, and other people, before such things could be openly confronted in straightforward drama. So I’m not one of those people who are drawn to horror by gore or some other superficial incentive; I have always responded to them because they made me aware of unpopular truths, because they made me a more empathic person, and because they sometimes encompass a very unusual form of beauty that you can’t find in reality or in any other kind of film.

THE CHISELER: I'm fascinated by what you term "a very specific hybrid of beauty that you can’t find in reality or in any other kind of film.” Please develop that point.

Tim Lucas: For example, the aesthetic put forward by the films of David Lynch... or Tim Burton... or Mario Bava... or Roger Corman... or Val Lewton... or James Whale... or F.W. Murnau. It's incredibly varied, really; too varied to be summarized by a single name, but it's dark and baroque with a broader, deeper spectrum of color. I’ll give you an example: there is a Sax Rohmer novel called YELLOW SHADOWS - and only in a horror film can you see truly yellow shadows. Or green shadows. Or a fleck of red light on a vine somewhere out of doors. It’s a painterly version of reality, akin to what people see in film noir but even more psychological. It might be described as a visible confirmation of how the past survives in everything - we can see new artists quoting from a past master, making their essence their own.

THE CHISELER: Your definition of horror, to me, goes straight to the heart of cinema as an almost metaphysical phenomenon. My friend and frequent co-writer, Jennifer Matsui, once wrote: "Celluloid preserves the dead better than any embalming fluid. Like amber preserved holograms, they flit in and out of its parameters, reciting their own epitaphs in pantomime; revenant moths trapped in perpetual motion." Do Italian directors have what I guess you can call special epiphanies to offer? If so, does this help explain your Bava book?

Tim Lucas: The epiphanies of Italian horror all arise from the culture that was inculcated into those filmmakers as young people - the awareness of architecture, painting, writing, myth, legend, music, sculpture that they all grow up with. It's so much richer than any films that can be made by people with no foundation in the other art forms, people who makes movies just because they've seen a few - and maybe cannot even be bothered to watch any in black and white. I imagine many people go into the film business for reasons having to do with sex or power rather than having something deep down they need to express. The most stupid Italian and French directors have infinitely more in their artistic arsenals than directors from the USA, because they are brought up with an awareness of the importance of the Arts. No one gets this in America, where we slash arts and education budgets and many parents just sit their children in front of a television. Without supervision, without a sense of context, they will inevitably be drawn to whatever is loudest or most colorful or whatever has the most edits per minute. And those kids are now making blockbusters. They make money, so why screw with the formula? When I was a kid, it was still possible to find important, nurturing material on TV - fortunately!

Does it explain my Bava book? I don't know, but Bava's films somehow encouraged and sustained the passion that saw me through the researching and writing of that book, which took 32 years. When my book first came out, some people took me to task for its presumed excess - on the grounds that “our great directors” like John Ford and Orson Welles, for all their greatness, had never inspired a book of such size or magnitude. I could only answer that my love for my subject must be greater. But the thing about the Bava book, really, was that - at that time - the playing field was pretty much virgin territory in English, and Bava as a worker in the Italian film industry touched just about everything that industry had encompassed. All of those relationships needed charting. It would have been an insult to merely pigeonhole him as a horror director.

THE CHISELER: I discovered your publication, Video Watchdog, back in 2000 when Kim's Video was something of an underground institution here in NYC. I mean, they openly hawked bootlegs. There was a real sense of finding the unexpected which gave the place a genuine mystique. Now that you've had some time to reflect on its heyday, what are your thoughts, generally, on VW?

Tim Lucas: It's hard to explain to someone who just caught on in 2000, when things were already very different and more incorporated. VIDEO WATCHDOG began in 1990 as a magazine, but before that it was a feature in other magazines of different sorts that began in 1986. At that time, I was reviewing VHS releases for a Chicago-based magazine called VIDEO MOVIES, which then had a title change to VIDEO TIMES. I pointed out to my editor that his writers were reviewing the films and not saying anything about their presentation on video, and urged him to make more of a mandate about discussing aspect ratios, missing scenes (or added scenes) and such. I proposed that I write a column that would start collecting such information and that column was called "The Video Watchdog.”

In 2000, VW's origins in Beta and VHS and LaserDisc had evolved to DVD and Blu-ray was on the point of being introduced, so by then most of the battles we identified and fought had already been won and assimilated into the way movies were being presented on video. But in our early days, my fellow writers and I - were making our readers aware of filmmakers like Bava, Argento, Avati, Franco, Rollin, Ptushko, Zuławski - and the conversation we started led to people seeking out these films through non-official channels, even forming those non-official channels, until the larger companies began to realize there was an exploitable market there. Our coverage was never limited to horror - horror was sort of the hub of our interest, which radiated out into the works of any filmmaker whose work seemed in some way paranormal - everyone from Powell and Pressburger to Ishiro Honda to Krzystof Kiesłowski.

Now that the magazine is behind me, I can see more easily that we were part of a process, perhaps an integral part, of identifying and disseminating some very arcane information and, by sharing our own processes of discovery, raising the general consciousness about innumerable marginal and maverick filmmakers. A lot of our readers went on to become filmmakers (some already were) and many also went on to form home video companies or work in the business.

I'm proud of what we were able to achieve, and that what were written as timely reports have endured as still useful, still relevant criticism. Magazines tend to be snapshots of the present, and our back issues have that aspect, but our readers still tell me that the work is holding up, it’s not getting old.

When I say "we," I mean numerous writers who shared my pretentious ethic and were able to push genre criticism beyond the dismissive critical writing about genre film that was standard in 1990. I mentioned this state of things in my first editorial, that the gore approach wasn’t encouraging anyone to take horror as a genre more seriously, and I do think horror became more respectable over the years we were publishing.

THE CHISELER: My own personal touchstone, Raymond Durgnat, drilled deep into genre — particularly horror films — while pushing back instinctively against the Auteur Theory. No critic will ever write with more infatuated precision about Barbara Steele, whose image graces the cover of your Bava tome. Do you have any personal favorites in that regard; any individual author or works that acted as a kind of Virgil for you?

Tim Lucas: I haven't read Durgnat extensively, but when I discovered him in the 1970s his books FRANJU and A MIRROR FOR ENGLAND were gospel to me. Tom Milne's genre reviews for MONTHLY FILM BULLETIN were always intelligent and well-informed. Ivan Butler’s HORROR IN THE CINEMA was the first real book I read on the subject, along with HITCHCOCK/TRUFFAUT - and I remember focusing on Butler’s chapter on REPULSION, an entire fascinating chapter on a single film, which I hadn’t actually seen. It showed me the film and also how to watch it, so that when it finally came to my local television station, I was ready to meet it head on. David Pirie’s books A HERITAGE OF HORROR and THE VAMPIRE CINEMA I read to pieces. But it was Joe Dante's sometimes uncredited writing in CASTLE OF FRANKENSTEIN magazine that first hooked my interest in this direction - followed by the earliest issues of CINEFANTASTIQUE, which I discovered with their third issue and for which I became a regular reviewer and correspondent in 1972. I continued to write for them for the next 11 years.

THE CHISELER: I was wondering how you responded to these periodic shifts in taste and sexual politics, especially as they address horror movies — or even something like feminist critiques of the promiscuity of rage against women evident all throughout Giallo; the fear of female agency and power which is never too far from the surface. Are sexism, and even homophobia, simply inherent to the genre?

Tim Lucas: None of that really matters very much to me. I've been around so long now, I can see these recurring waves of people trying to catch their own wave of time, to make an imprint on it in some way. For some reason, I find myself annoyed by newish labels like "folk horror" and "J-horror" because such films have been with us forever; they didn't need such identification before and they have only been invented to get us more quickly to a point, and sometimes these au courant labels simply rebrand work without bringing anything substantially new to the discussion. Every time I read an article about the giallo film, I have to suffer through another explanation of what it is - and this is a genre whose busiest time frame was half a century ago. Sexism and homophobia are things people generally only understand in terms of the now, and I don’t know how fair it is to apply such concepts to films made so long ago. Think of Maria’s torrid dance in METROPOLIS and all those ravenous young men in tuxedos eating her with their eyes. Sexist, yes - but that’s not the point Lang was making.

I don’t particularly see myself as normal, but I suppose I am centrist in most ways. I don’t bring an agenda to the films I write about, other than wanting them to be as complete and beautifully restored as possible. That said, I am interested in, say, feminist takes on giallo films or homosexual readings of Herman Cohen films because - after all - we all bring ourselves to the movies, and if there’s more to be learned about a film I admire, from outside my own experience, that can be precious information. I want to know it and see if I can agree with it, or even if it causes me to feel something new and unfamiliar about it.

My only real concern is that genre criticism tends to be either academic or conversational (even colloquial), and we’re now at a point where the points made by articles published 20 or more years ago are coming back presented as new information, without any idea (or concern) that these things have already been said. As magazines are going by the wayside, taking their place is talk on social media, which is not really disciplined or constructive, nor indeed easily retrievable for reference. There are also audio commentaries on DVD and Blu-ray discs. Fortunately, there are a number of good and serious people doing these, but even when you get very intelligent or intellectual commentators, they often work best with the movie image turned off, because it’s a distraction from what’s being said. Is that true commentary? I'm not an academic; I’m an autodidact, so I don't have the educational background to qualify as a true intellectual, and I feel left out by a lot of academic writing. I do read a good deal and have familiarity with a fair range of topics, so I tend to frame myself somewhere between the vox populist and academia. That's the area we pursued in VW.

THE CHISELER: David Cairns and I once published a critical appreciation of Giallo, using fundamentally Roman Catholic misogyny — and, to a lesser extent, fear of gay men — as an intriguing lens. For example, lesbians are invariably sinister figures in these movies, while straight women ultimately function as nothing more than cinematographic objects: very fetishized, very well-lit corpses, you might say.

Tim Lucas: See, I admire a lot of giallo films but it would never occur to me to see them through a lens. I do, of course, because personal experience is a lens, but my lens is who I am and I’ve never had to fight for or defend my right to be who I am. I have no particular flag to wave in these matters; I approach everything from the stance of a film historian or as a humanist.

There is a lot of crossdressing and such in giallo, but these are tropes going back to French fin de siècle thrillers of the early 1900s, they don't really have anything to do with homophobia as we perceive it in our time. In the Fantomas novels, Souvestre and Allain (the authors) used to continually deceive their readers by having their characters - the good and the evil ones - change disguises, and sometimes apparently change sexes.

I remember Dario Argento saying that he used homosexual characters in his films because he was interested in their problems. He seldom actually explored their problems, and their portrayal in his earliest films is… quaint, to be kind about it… but it was a positive change as time played out. I think the fact that Argento’s flamboyant style attracted gay fans brought them more into his orbit and the vaguely sinister gay characters of his early films become more three dimensional and sympathetic later on, so in that regard his attention to such characters charts his own gradual embracing of them. So in a sense they chart his own widening embrace of the world, which is surprising considering what a misanthropic view of the world he presents.

THE CHISELER: But Giallo is roughly contemporaneous to the rise of Second Wave Feminism. Like the Michael & Roberta Findlay 'roughies', this is not a fossilized species of extinct male anger we're talking about here. Women's bodies are the energy of pictorial composition; splayed specifically for the delectation of some very confused and pissed off men in the audience. I know of no exceptions. To me it makes perfect sense to recognize the ritualized stabbings, stranglings, the BDSM hijinks in Giallo as rather obvious symptoms of somebody's not-so-latent fear and hatred.

Tim Lucas: I think that’s a modernist attitude that was not all that present at the time. Once the MPAA ratings system was introduced in late 1968, all genres of films got stronger in terms of graphic violence and language, and suspense thrillers were no exception. At the time, women and gay people were feeling freer, freer to be themselves, and were not looking for new ways to be taken out of films, however they might be represented. Neither base really had that power anyway at that time, but at any rate it wasn’t a time for them to appear more conservative. That would come at a later period when they felt more assured and confident in their equality. Throughout the 1960s, even in 1969 films like THE WRECKING CREW and BEYOND THE VALLEY OF THE DOLLS, you can see that women are still playthings of a sort in films; there are starting to be more honest portrayals of women in films like HUD, but the prevailing emphasis of them is still decorative, so it makes sense that they would be no different in a thriller setting. There’s no arguing, I don’t think, that the murder scenes become more thrilling when the victim is a beautiful, voluptuous woman. It’s nothing to do with misogyny but rather about wanting to induce excitement from the viewer. If you look back to Janet Leigh’s character arc in PSYCHO, the exact same thing happens to her, but because she’s a well-developed character and time is given to explore that character and her goals and motivations, there is no question that it is a role women would want to play, even now. However, the same simply isn’t true of most giallo victims, which should not be seen as one of their rules but as one of their faults. In BLOOD AND BLACK LACE, I think Mario Bava shows us just enough of the women characters for us to have some investment in their fates - but when the giallo films are in the hands of sausage makers, you’re going to feel a sense of misogyny. It may be real but it may also be misanthropy or a more commercial mandate to pack more into a film and to sex it up. I should add that, because I’m not a woman or gay, I don’t bring personal sensitivities to these things, so I see them as something that just comes with the territory, like shoot-outs in Westerns. If you were to expunge anything that was objectionable from a giallo film, wouldn’t it be just another cop show or Agatha Christie episode? You watch a giallo film because, on some level, you want to see something with the hope of some emotional or aesthetic involvement, or with the hope of being outraged and offended. There is no end of mystery entertainment without giallo tropes, so it’s there if you demand that. Giallo films aren’t really about who done it, only figuratively; they are lessons in how to stage murder scenes and probably would not exist without the master painting of PSYCHO’s shower scene, which they all seek to emulate.

THE CHISELER: You mentioned Val Lewton earlier. Personally, I've never encountered anything like the overall tone of his films. There's always something startling to see and hear. Would you shed a little light on his importance?

Tim Lucas: He's an almost unique figure in film in that he was a producer yet he projected an auteur-like imprint on all his works. The horror films for which he's best known are not quite like any other films of their kind; I remember Telotte's book DREAMS OF DARKNESS using the word "vesperal" to describe the Lewton films' specific atmosphere - a word pertaining to the mood of evening prayer services, which isn't a bad way of putting it. I've always loved them for their delicacy, their poetical sense, their literary quality, and their indirectness - which sometimes co-exists with sources of florid garishness, like the woman with the maracas in THE LEOPARD MAN. In THE SEVENTH VICTIM, one shy character characterizes the heroine's visit to his apartment as her "advent into his world," and when I first saw it, I was struck by the almost spiritual tenderness and vulnerability of that description. Lewton was remarkable because he seems to have worked in horror because it was below the general studio radar, which allowed him to make extremely personal films. As long as they checked the necessary boxes, he could make the films he wanted - and I think Mario Bava learned that exact lesson from him.

THE CHISELER: I've always been fascinated by a question which is probably unanswerable: Why do you think it is that movies based on Edgar Allan Poe stories — even those films that only just pretend to sink roots in Poe, offering glib riffs on his prose at best — invariably bear fruit?

Tim Lucas: Poe's writings predate the study of human psychology and, to an extent, chart it - so he can be credited with founding a wing of science much like Jules Verne's writings were the foundation of science fiction and, later, science fact. Also, from the little we know of Poe's personal life, his writing was extremely personal and autobiographical, which makes it all the more compelling and resonant. It's also remarkably flexible in the way it lends itself to adaptation - there is straight Poe, comic Poe, arty Poe, even Poeless Poe. It helps too that a lot of people familiar with him haven't read him extensively, at least not since school, or think they have read him because they've seen so many Poe movies. The sheer range of approaches taken to his adaptation makes him that much more universal.

It also occurs to me that people are probably much more alike internally than they are externally, so the identification with an internal or first person narrator may be more immediate. But it's true that his work has inspired a fascinating variety of interpretation. You can see this at work in a single film: SPIRITS OF THE DEAD (1968), which I’ve written an entire book about. It’s three stories done by Roger Vadim, Louis Malle, and Federico Fellini - all vastly different, all terribly personal expressions of the men who made them.

THE CHISELER: Speaking of Poe adaptations, I've long thought it's time to confront Roger Corman's legacy; as an artist, a producer, an industrial muse, everything. Sometimes I think he's the single most important figure in cinema history. And if that's a wild overstatement, I could stand my ground somewhat and point out that no one person ever supported independent filmmakers with such profound results. It's as though he used his position at a mainstream Hollywood studio to open a kind of Underground Railroad for two generations of film artists. He gave so many artists a leg up in a business where those kinds of opportunities were never exactly abundant that it's hard to keep track. Entering the subject from any angle you like, what are your thoughts on Corman's overall contribution to cinema?

Tim Lucas: I can think of more important filmmakers than Corman, but there has never been a more important producer or mogul or facilitator of films. I said this while introducing him on the first of our two-night interview at the St. Louis Film Festival’s Vincentennial in 2011. He was largely responsible for every trend in American cinema during its most decisive quarter century - 1955 through 1980, and to some extent a further decade still, which bore an enormous influx of talent he discovered and nurtured. People talk about Irving Thalberg, Darryl F. Zanuck, Steven Spielberg, etc. - but their productions don’t begin to show the sheer diversity of interests that you get from Corman’s output. He has no real counterpart. I’ve spent a lot of the past 20 years musing on him, first as the protagonist of a comedy script I wrote with Charlie Largent called THE MAN WITH KALEIDOSCOPE EYES, which Joe Dante has optioned. A few years ago, I decided to turn the script into a novel, which is with my agent now. It’s about the time period before, during, and after the making of THE TRIP (1966). It's a comedy but one with a serious, even philosophical side.

You know, Mario Bava once described himself to someone as “the Italian Roger Corman.”  It’s incredible to me that Bava would have said that, not because it’s wrong or even because he was a total filmmaker before Corman made his first picture, but because Bava has been dead for so long! He’s been gone now almost 40 years and Roger is still making movies. And he’s been making movies for the DTV market longer than anybody, so he sort of predicted the current exodus of new movies away from theaters to streaming formats.

THE CHISELER: Are there any other producers/distributors you'd care to acknowledge, anyone that you think has followed in what you might call Corman’s Tradition of Generosity?

Tim Lucas: No, I really think he is incomparable in that respect. I do think it’s important to note, however, that I doubt Roger was ever purely motivated by generosity of spirit. I don’t think he would put money or his trust in anyone merely as a favor. He’s a businessman to his core and his gambles have always been based on projects that are likely to improve on his investment, even if moderately. I have a feeling that the first dollar he ever made is still in circulation, floating around out there bringing something new into being. I also don’t think he would give anyone their big break unless they had earned that break already in some respect. And when he does extend that opportunity, he’s got to know that, when these people graduate from his company, he’ll be sacrificing their talent, their camaraderie, maybe even in some cases their gratitude. So yes, there is some generosity in that aspect - but he also knows from experience that there are always new top students looking to extend their educations on the job. I wish more people in the film business had his selflessness, his ability to recognize and encourage talent. It may be his greatest legacy.

THE CHISELER: You introduced me, many years ago, to Mill of the Stone Women — I'll end on a personal note by thanking you and asking: Would you share an insight or two about this remarkable gem, particularly for readers who may not have seen it?

Tim Lucas: MILL OF THE STONE WOMEN was probably my first exposure to Italian horror; I saw it as a child, more than once, on local television and there were things about it that haunted and disturbed me, though I didn't understand it. Perhaps that's why it haunted and disturbed me, but the image of Helfy's hands clutching the red velvet curtains stayed with me for decades (a black and white memory) until I got to see it on VHS - I paid $59.95 for the privilege because my video store told me they would not be stocking it. It's a very peculiar film because Giorgio Ferroni wasn't a director who favored horror; the "Flemish Tales" that it's supposedly based on is non-existent, a Lovecraftian meta-invention, and it's the only Italian horror filmed in that particular region in the Netherlands. It looks more Germanic than Italian. I’m tempted to believe Bava may have had a hand in doing the special effects shot, which look like his work, but they might also have been done by his father Eugenio, as he was also a wax figure sculptor so would have been good to have on hand. He seldom took screen credit. So it's a film that has stayed with me because it's elusive; it's hard to find the slot where it belongs. It's like an adult fairy tale, or something out of E.T.A. Hoffmann. I can’t tell you how many hours I’ve wasted, trying to find another movie with the unique spell cast by that one.

[somekeepsakes]

German interview with Peter (May 20, 2019) on drugs, love and new beginnings

I noticed that another version of the interview with Peter which @koidivisions translated some weeks back has emerged. The newer, longer, and presumably full(?) version can be found here. I’m only adding the translation for the bits that were missing in the earlier version. Since there are quite a few of them, maybe some of you are interested in reading the entire thing.

cut cut cut and off you go

Why did Hamburg change you so much? I felt privileged that Johann Scheerer opened his door for me. He trusted me.

He said: "You may live in the apartment and use the studio." He gave me his house key at a time when not even my own family would have trusted me with a key. Yes, it was a wonderful time in Hamburg! It was a shame that there was such resentment between my management at that time and the people from Clouds Hill as, much to the dismay of my management, there was someone who trusted me; that I stayed in Germany, recorded music, and took more control.

Did you feel something close to freedom? Yes, I believe so, there were no paparazzi lurking around every corner. And doing spontaneous gigs in the Golem, this wickedly expensive place, was great. I loved it there.

For some people, you’re a gifted song poet, whereas others tend to associate you with your drug antics. Yes, they believe me to be a caricature. There are even people who are disappointed when they meet me and I’m not all fucked up. This is really sad. But, then, it used to be like that for a long time. There used to be all these negative stories about me that had a nasty pic of me attached to them all the time.

And on the few days where I was alright, they manipulated the picture, or took one of me sneezing. This really killed me. It inwardly killed me.

And everything went hand in hand… The police were obsessed with getting hold of me. They arrested me repeatedly. That made me feel as if I was a dangerous person or a threat to society. That was sheer insanity.

But you’re out of the woods now? That’d be wonderful. But addiction is an illness – a mental illness. It’s self-destructive…

How safe are you feeling right now? Difficult to say. I’m feeling safe. But if I think about it, I don’t actually know what feeling safe means. At least I don’t want to go back to where I was.

[Regarding Margate] But why did you buy a hotel there? Because it was so cheap, so incredibly cheap!

It was said to be the most rundown hotel in Kent or even in England. That’s not entirely fair. The Nigerian woman who ran it had a bad reputation because she used to kick people out of the hotel whenever they complained. But saying that it was the worst hotel… No, I went to one in Aberdeen once which was worse!

And you invested money in yours? Sure, the whole thing was Carl’s idea. He decided that The Libertines needed headquarters. He then found this old five-storey townhouse. He didn’t pay me for five festival gigs for he knows I’m prone to wasting money. The others saved their share. And now I’m one of six investors.

Our studio has already been finished, and the hotel is supposed to come about bit by bit. The liquor licence is also there already so that Carl is able to open a bar beneath the hotel. The bar is going to be called "Wasteland" like the book by T.S. Eliot who lived four doors away. His father owned a bed and breakfast in Margate 100 years ago.

It’s supposed to become something similar to Andy Warhol’s "Factory". The Margate version of it. Carl wants to gradually set it up in a way so that different artists will be able to live and work under the same roof.

You’re said to have started a company for that business. I’ve read that article, too. What a load of bollocks! It said that I was worth 5.3 million pounds – crazy! Carl was really angry when he read that since he’s the businessman among the two of us. I would be completely unfit for a thing like that.

[Regarding the cat incident] There’ve been worse stories about you. And still, you were angry about it? Sure, because it was this incident that brought paparazzi to my doorstep again. That was the first time in two years, prior to that, everything was peaceful. There were no negative stories about me. And even on this day, I was kind towards the photographers. But they didn’t like that.

They claimed that I stood there in the doorway laughing. It broke my heart cause I love animals. And I love cats.

Does the sea inspire you? Tremendously! Every morning when I step outside. The light is unbelievable and the dark, wild sea – it’s calling for me. Sometimes, that’s dangerous. I’d like to run naked into the sea.

But so far you haven’t answered the call? I will do so in summer. Due to their arctic background, my dogs are used to freezing temperatures. They can step into the water when it’s cold, and they love it. But it’s not as nice as it may sound for humans in Margate.

In what way? We get these weird weather fronts. Every ten years, über-storms are causing serious damage. Just last week, the roof of the huge Tesco market got blown away, just like that. The buildings can take a lot but there are also lots of tunnels beneath the bases of the houses which were constructed in old smuggler times. That’s why the whole thing is unstable and causes buildings to collapse. It really is a weird place, Margate.

[Regarding the Puta Madres album] It probably won’t make you rich. That’s the reason why Drew isn’t part of the band. He preferred to make money while touring with Liam Gallagher. But it’s not always about money even if I’m not less greedy than others.

But I also know what damage money can cause. I need to take care of myself so that I’m not going to suffer from tunnel vision and therefore miss the genuine things that inspired me at a time when I didn’t have any money. If we make any money with that, which would be great for us, we’re going to build our own studio.

You’ve recorded the album overlooking a fishing village in the municipality of Étretat in the Normandy. Why not in Margate? Because Carl insisted that the new studio would be Libertines only. So we went to France where the family of our keyboarder Katia lives. That was great because we were able to record the album within a few days. Just like the Beatles did with their first album: one microphone in the room, press record, play the songs, and go back home.

[Regarding Someone Else To Be] Why do you quote Oasis in this particular song? "Please don’t put your life in the hands of a rock’n’roll band" has always been one of my favourite lines from a song. The warning it includes is probably justified.

[Regarding his stance on relationships] As complicated as Brexit? That is indeed complicated for the Puta Madres as so many nationalities come together in this band! We need to move freely, otherwise the knell will sound for us. But we’ll somehow find our way to France, Spain and Germany.

Where does the funny "Puta Madres" band name which literally translates as "goddamn mothers" come from by the way ? "Ah, it’s the puta madre!" – our drummer Rafa used to say that very often in the beginning when he referred to something positive as well as to something negative or something inbetween.

I didn’t really know what it meant but thought we might use that as our band name. Everyone says that in Spain and South America and it means "fucking hell".

It’s a casual curse word like "motherfuckers". It means everything and nothing. Technically speaking, it refers to the mother of a prostitute.

Do you speak Spanish? Sí. There’s a bit of German, a bit of Spanish, and a bit of French on the album.

How are your German skills? (in German) Not that good.

Do you have a favourite German word? Radiergummi! And I also like Creutzfeldt-Jakob and Methadon.

You presumably were given the latter as a substitute during rehab? Yeah, sure, horrible stuff. Sickly sweet. I call it the bad absinth.

Do you still think about Amy Winehouse? Yes, often. Constantly, actually. I met a girl called Jade Goldsworthy, an incredible singer. She reminds me so much of Amy. She hasn’t recorded anything yet, we’ve only met. But I’m planning to release something with her. We’re working on it. Amy would’ve loved her. I’m sure of that.

And The Libertines will continue as well? Of course, forever! Carl and I are stronger than ever.

Are you working on the new Libertines record at the moment? Yeah, but it was all a bit tragic. Ollie, The Prodigy’s guitarist, came round and wanted to help Carl and me with writing and producing. The next day, the news of Keith’s death – who was also a friend of Carl’s – broke. He committed suicide. The last thing Ollie texted Keith was a picture of my dogs as Keith was a fellow husky lover. And Keith replied saying how beautiful they were. And the next day, he hanged himself. We haven’t seen Ollie since.

How did you react to Flint’s death? I listened to all the old Prodigy records. There’s unbelievably good stuff among them, sometimes scaringly sinister.

Given the many deaths surrounding you, do you ask yourself why you’re still alive? No, I don’t think about that.

There are lots of discussions going on at the moment about whether it’s appropriate for radio stations to still play Michael Jackson songs or not. How do you see it: Should we separate an artist’s work from the artist? Wow – that’s a damn good question! His songs are being played every few seconds somewhere in the world. It’s amazing music, some of the best songs ever written. It’d be a fucked-up situation if he’s guilty… A part of me would die – a major part of my childhood. I loved his music.

Did you see the documentary? No, the film might have a significant impact on me – I can’t bring myself to watch it at the moment. I need to be careful with it, it’s too important. Michael Jackson used to be such an important factor in my life. It’s similar to Woody Allen: He’s a great filmmaker, he’s got a good sense of humour. It would annihilate so much culture if we didn’t separate an artist’s work from the private individual. But it’s tricky.

[mtemplex]

Little Baby Faulkner

# 1

My girlfriend Sashi used to hate it when film crews used her neighborhood to film. She hated it because her neighborhood was quiet—and then come all these film people noising it up, blocking roads, leaving colored tape everywhere. But mostly she hated that she was the insider, and they were the outsiders, and shooting a film was their pass to become tourist in her neighborhood, where she was a native.

Also: Sashi went to film school. And somehow that figured into her hatred of film crews.

I went to film school too. Sashi’s was in New York. Mine was in LA. She studied lighting. She liked to be on crew. I studied directing. If I never pick up another light or calculate line voltages in my head it will be too soon. I think Sashi held it against me that I liked the heady work while she preferred the grunt work. Sashi was smart enough to direct. To write. She considered it more pure to haul cord, to respond to the cinematographer bark orders. When she worked on a movie, she *preferred* not to read the script. She and her fellow crew members would go to Starbucks after filming and talk philosophy—not the casual kind that most people talk, but real philosophy, the kind that to keep up with you had to be read up on every last work by Derrida. They didn’t *want* to know anything about the movie: Their way of filmmaking was *pure*. The less they knew the better.

This story I’m about to tell you took place over one weekend in September (or maybe October). It was senior thesis week and as a director I didn’t have any interest in helping out some classmate by holding the boom microphone—which is what I liked to do when I was required to be on someone else’s set. Much for the same reasons Sashi worked lights: I could be there and not be there. Just get the mic in the right place and my brain could wander to infinite places other than *here*.

I lived right up the street from my school. Three blocks. And right between block two and block three was a restaurant with no name (as is popular in LA). It had a black door and a red carpet and I had never been inside but I had walked past it every day for a year and on Sunday and Thursday the red carpet was rolled out. If I got drunk my apartment was one block up the hill. I could walk there and see the homeless man sleeping on a couch someone had literally thrown out their window. Hollywood is like that: Lamborghinis and rich people live on the same street as homeless ones. There is no plan to help the homeless ones. They wander, move, die.

I had seen people enter the restaurant with no name. In couples or quads, guys and girls, all dressed up. And disappear behind the door into relative blackness.

Now I stand here, ready to knock—realizing what a silly gesture that is—and I’m not dressed up, instead wearing my brown cargo pants that I used to swear by as a film person (due to the extra—the third—side pocket almost to the cuff at the bottom of the pants). I’ve never seen that pocket before or since. Only on the ones sold in a surplus shop on Hollywood B.

I pull open the door, walk a few steps in. I almost leave because no one is in there. The tables are stood on top of each other like they stand when a restaurant crew closes for the night. There was a bar—no one at it, no one behind it. I look around the place:

I see a bar with nine stools. An area in the back with a stained-glass skylight. Tiles on the floor underneath that: Forming the structure of a wave, patterns never lost on me. I think about texting my film school buddy but decide I want to be alone. At the top of the Ave is the Alto Nido building, where I live. Sashi lived with me for a while. Then I threw my phone across the room, shattering it, glass everywhere. Then I kicked her out. I feel bad about it but me throwing that phone was the last in a line of incidents tracing us from Arizona to Ohio and then to LA. I have never met anyone who made me as mad as that girl.

Other than the skylight, there were no windows in this place. The ceiling was packed with cinema lighting, stage lighting. Even underneath the floor, which was glass block, a parade of colors went by as though I was standing on a river.

I went and sat at the bar, put my laptop bag on the floor, leaning against my stool. Maybe there was an underground chamber and *that’s* where everyone who comes through that door went to..some *Alice in Wonderland* in the basement or sub basement where all the kids in Hollywood (not the students, not the ones without money) would go to dance and hook up and go home and fuck and come back next Sunday or Thursday and ignore everyone they had taken home before.

“Excuse me”—that was the bartender.

I smile in a familiar way, as though we know each other.

“Is this place open?”

“We open at seven, actually.”

“Do you have a kitchen?”

“Yes,” he says deeply. “I’ll get you a menu.”

“That’s ok,” I say. “Do you have a ribeye?”

“Yes sir we do.”

“I’d like a rib eye. Extra rare. With blue cheese crumbles on top.”

“Sure thing,” he says.

“Also? Could I have serrano peppers and two eggs over easy on top of that blue cheese?”

“Sure thing? You want a drink?”

“Yes, a glass of Syrah if you have it.”

“We have it! Totally. We have it. I guess it’s ok if you sit here. There’s a party later.”

“I’ll be out of here by then,” I say (having no intention to leave).

The bartender pours me a generous glass of wine in a glass with a thin lip (important if you’re me). He goes into the kitchen.

I flip through my phone book. Almost all the way to the end. I pretend to consider each name, each number, but really I’m looking for a certain name all along: Roberts, my fuck buddy from Ohio. Don’t ask my *why* I picked Roberts. It may have had something to do with my having tried cocaine for the first time a few days ago, and something in me knew that Roberts had done it, or could help me with her sexy words. My sex with her was the best ever—she said our sex was amazing. After our second bout of soap-suds squishy sex on the floor of my apartment in Ohio, she said, “It’s not that our sex is amazing. I just always wanted to know what it was like to have sex with a genius.”

I refrained from asking her what that was like.

Now in LA, in my empty restaurant, I called her.

“Well look who it is,” she says.

“Hey, pretty girl.”

“So what’s going on?”

“I’m on a coke binge and I need a break.”

“So you called me! Ha ha.”

“Have you ever done it?”

“Matt. You will not believe your synchronicity with me and my house right now! We—me and my roomie Hannah—we just got this house. To rent. And we are breaking it in with a whole weekend of coke. The whole weekend. You know what I think would be great?”

“If I fly to Dayton and participate in your coke weekend?”

Silence.

Then Roberts’ voice: “Would you?”

“Umm..”

“Oh please! *Could* you?”

“Ahh..”

“Oh my god we could do coke and have sex all weekend!”

“Ok!” I say. “Tell me about this house.”

“I will,” she says. “Hannah and I live here—the lease is in our name. My grandmom lives here. And Hannah’s boyfriend name of Rambuncto is getting out of jail on Saturday.”

“They let people out of jail on Saturday?”

“You’re my smart boy. As in: Anyone else would have asked me *What is he in for?* but you ask *Will they let him out on Saturday?*

“Well: What is he in for?”

“Assault. On a stranger in a Walmart.”

“Is he guilty? I mean: Did he do it?”

Roberts’ laugh gets two steps louder.

“I’m pretty sure he’s guilty, yeah.”

“Is he gonna be there this weekend?”

A pause from Roberts.

“Matthew, don’t worry about it. Rambuncto may talk some shit but he’s harmless.”

“Not to the person in Walmart.”

“Don’t worry about it, Matthew. You spend so much of your head worrying it’s a miracle you’re not losing brain celluloid whenever you wake up. Come over. Can you afford it? I can send you money if you can’t afford it.”

“I can afford it.”

“Ok, good. ‘Cause I can’t really afford it.”

We both laugh.

“And I have enough money for coke.”

“Ok, this is what I think we should start with: an eight ball,” Roberts says. Then we can get more eight balls when we run out. I don’t know if you remember, but I always wanted to get a Snoop doggy dog and—guess what?—I have one. Do you want me to tell you his name?”

“Hold up. Before that. Is Rambuncto—? Is Hannah—? I mean, are they ok?”

“You’ve *met* Hannah before.”

“Did she go to Colonel White?”

“She went to Stivers. She’s fine. Don’t worry! The house is cool, ok? Say *The house is cool*.”

“I just wanna—“

“SAY THE HOUSE IS COOL!!”

“Ok. It’s cool. The house is cool.”

“We’re gonna have so much fun when you get here, Matt. We’ll fuck *all weekend*. I know you like that slippy little soap suds fucking we do. Look. I gotta go.”

“Can you pick me up from the airport?”

“Guess what my dog’s name is. Just text me the details. What’s my dog’s name? Baby hurry ‘cause I gotta go.”

“I don’t know. What’s its name?”

“Faulkner.” She lays it out like carpet.

“Why did you name him that? Have you ever *read* any Faulkner?”

“I gotta go, my wayward king! Hannah says we have a dead-ish baby in the crib room.”

“Alright, girl—“ I say, but the line goes dead.

Just then the bartender returns with my steak. It is cooked extra rare. With two eggs, blue cheese, and jalapeño peppers instead of serranos. I decide to eat it anyway.

# 2

Roberts and I had a history. From the first I saw her practicing color guard with the school’s JROTC program—her face so smooth, her hair: an angels!—to the time I followed her across the gym floor during a science exploration—projects everywhere, and none more important to me—I tracked her down and we spoke and she did seem kinda dumb to me. But I liked her anyway, and over the years we’d become fuck buddies. From that time watching *The Great Gatsby* (Robert Redford version) sitting in the dark of the basement where her apartment was, her dog outside listening. And Roberts and I moved deliberately to a lying down position and kissed in the dark—and all we did was kiss—but the seed was sewn, and it wasn’t till a couple years since *The Great Gatsby* that we hooked up in my place on Second Street in Dayton Ohio (with the help of a bottle of Aftershock) that we finally took it all the way.

Fucking Roberts had become an exalted experience. Full of imagination and the fulfillment of imagination. Her puss was so red and so tight..it was unimaginable. Truly, the best sex of my life, right there. Soap suds—the works. Tight as a flower mate by a honeybee, the bee shaking his tail feathers to get in there. Before we had stood in the light of a street lamp visible five floors below..and when it turned red we stopped touching each other and when it turned green we started again.

My friend Julian was mad at me when I told him Roberts and I had fucked. He asked me to describe her vagina, which I did. Red. Redder than the purest red in a box of Crayons, a set of oil paints. Tight as a honeybee. Wet and snug and so tight she made me cum in her after five strokes, even after she asked me not to cut. We never used a condom. Kept it clear and functioning. Lord of the *Flies*. The next morning she jacked me off with two hands while she waited for her mother to pick her up. Then it was off and on, whenever one of us happened to call the other. And it never seemed off-limits, even when one of us was in relationship—it was never cheating, with us.

This is the girl I was flying from LA to Dayton to meet. This is the girl when I showed her picture to my film school buddy, he said:

“You fucked *that*?”

To which I said, “Yep.”

And that was the end of the conversation. The end of Mike’s constant pestering me about getting a girlfriend, about everything he pestered me about, right down to the bottom of why I took showers instead of baths. Right down to the end of who my Christmas present was: A girl who I woke up in my LA bed to see. A girl I fucked during film school: brown hair, lovely petite, screaming sex in her chokers and all blackness and pink panties you could see above her back. Her back hurt. She needed relief. Any way I could provide it, I was willing. Fucked that girl in the equipment room, just, like, that.

I don’t remember that film school girl’s name—believe that? I don’t remember my Christmas present’s name. She was a costume girl for Adam Sandler. And the fact that I didn’t remember her name isn’t really an act of pathological sport fucking—more an act of casualty that we all engage in. Fuck one girl, forget her name. Forget her phone number and wake up the next morning with more unknowns in your address book: “Molly, 323.818.9544”—total unknown. Don’t remember a Molly—don’t remember anyone. No one new, no one old. A real bright way of living, there.

But on that night Roberts and I decided to invite each other to spend a coke weekend at her house in Ohio..on the night I invited myself into this anonymous dance and supper club, on that night I stayed sober enough to remember two cute girls a few years older than me who danced and opened up their world to me.

“Do you wanna dance with us?”

These women were formally dressed and I with my six-pocket cargo pants they grabbed me me by the hands and took me to the place under the skylight and they freak-danced me, holding me in the envelope of light where each of them plus the skylight made a triangle of importable lust, striking jealousy in the eyes of the boys more normal to this party. Soon they picked me out as the threat, the tall nail which is inevitably hammered down, and the girls were saying goodbye and the bartenders and bouncers were telling me goodbye and the street lamp having just come on was guiding my home across the street with the intersection of the homeless man sleeping in a couch that had been thrown out the window and my school was far behind me and I let myself into the Alto Nido—it’s the building shown in the opening shot of *Sunset Boulevard*—and I took the stairs (down) and I struggled with the lock and soon was in the wood-flooring studio apartment where I had the pages of an entire screenplay (one I was writing) placed end to end across the floor.

This and some squirrel puzzles (dubbed thee by my friend Michael). They were stacked on the writing desk with a bunch of cocaine stacked next to them. I was reaching for a result and I thought coke could help. It seemed to speed up my thinking, but no result came. These were some mathematical puzzles that had been puzzling me and I didn’t know whether it was more in the problem-solving *vein* to take them to Dayton on my Roberts weekend or to leave them here and take a break.

I thought of the dead man out there on the sidewalk—he seemed dead to me. I had never used enough drugs to make myself actually *homeless*. I didn’t have sympathy for that man. This was what happened when you couldn’t control your addiction. When you lost your job and lost your wife and lost your nerve to walk into a job interview on LSD or walk into a job interview on meth and coke—if you couldn’t make that work, then you couldn’t *make it work*—period.

The idea that there were people out there who had never tried drugs was empty to me: I did not understand how that could be. My cousin divorced her husband after he 1) had back surgery 2) was prescribed opiates 3) became addicted to those opiates and 4) went to rehab to end his addiction. To me that seemed like the best-case scenario, minus the divorce. But, I mean, how in this first world of ours could anyone live for long without coming into contact with drugs. We live on them, can’t function without them. Anyone who has tried alcohol knows that if this drug was introduced today that it would be illegal. Same with cigs. The most dangerous drugs are on the street, legal to get. And a couple of the most transformative drugs are listed as the most restricted in our world. The real problem is you have people walking around with no general knowledge of drugs and their actual dangers and benefits.

I set up a line of coke, snarfed it.

I set up another line, banged it.

Mmm. Salad wenches of lines spreading before me the remnants of ecstasy flying, colliding. Rummaging in my mind tailwinds of stories I had yet to tell. Yardley dangers of Pluto, planets banging across each other to form craters, my jizz the center of the galaxy, girlfriend gone, somewhere at a Starbucks sitting out front talking with a homeless man, treating him better than she treats me (I have seen this) and her going home to some weekly hotel where she barely makes the rent, has to eat off the employee shelf—all she had to do was not wake me up at night, not engage me in impossible swirls of arguments that never end, there is never a truce, never a peace of the day, but me waking up with her kneeling over my body *yelling* at me. Never stopping. One who wants not to live together, not to love each other, but to be one end of a debate course, for us to work it all out *and for her to be right*! I could not take anymore of that.

I punched up my ticket—laptop, coke—making sure I got the flight times, origins and destinations, correct. Making sure I had the times correct. Enough room for changes to and from Dayton Ohio. I’d pack my bag tomorrow. I called Roberts.

“Hi y’all” (said in an English accent) “I hope you have been following my YouTube channel as of late where myself and my house mouse—we will call her ‘H’—move into a *fabulous* house in East Dayton. This weekend we have a guest, my old friend Matt from Colonel White. Anyway—*any who*—he’s coming for a visit. A sortie. An exportage. If you will. I” (sound of a smooch) “you, fuck boy! I smooch you I smooch you I smoooch you!!”

# 3

Listening to Roberts’ voicemail prompts were always like this: spinning in infinity, telling a tale. You could get a glimpse of her, through this medium, that gave you information you could only get in this way. If you saw her grandmother die and then asked Roberts if it saddened her, Roberts would say nothing. Then you’d listen to her voicemail and hang up before leaving a message, she would say the truth right there: she was sad.

Boarding the plane high on coke scared me. I had done a lot of coke before taking a cab to the airport, and I spent the whole ride there wiping down the corners of my bag, licking clean my normal coke holder and burying it in the bottom of my clothes. LAX is a trip within itself, messages of the white zone and the orange zone. I passed through the white zone thinking of all the white I had done, hoping those drug-sensing chemicals wouldn’t expose me—all to everyone. I took off my shoes and put my laptop in its own bin and walked through that fucking machine with the facial expression of the Dalai Lama and the shluffing feet of a would-be LA party goer—I would be a party goer except after that first impression I came across like a kid just broke into a candy store. I had the all the nerve but none of the money: real LA party people had rich parents and bottomless trusts and multiple parts in small movies.

They were the chosen ones. I was the nothing one.

I got through security. Got through the boarding process. Sat with my carry-on beneath my seat, leaned my head against a window, and I’m sure snored all the way through the flight.

During my sleep, I dreamt I was on a bicycle touring a school that was close to. There were a hundred black people in a small gymnasium watching a basketball game that was in cable—only—not on regular TV. I ride through that room and back outside, nodding to a guy who is riding *his* bike and he has crystal meth on him and while my nod means nothing to me, it means that I want some crystal, to him. Soon enough I’m riding my bike, high on crystal, around this park and some people hold a phone out to me:

“This is Paula Abdul. She wants to talk to you.”

I stop my bike and talk on speakerphone.

“Hey Paula!”

“Hey, my bro. How are you doing over there? Where is *over there* for you, anyway?”

“Over there? I think I’m in a poor neighborhood, traveling like a flashlight across the country by air, and my shadow casts a spot over poor neighborhoods across the country. Whatever the plane’s shadow touches, I am there. We’re somewhere in the Midwest now. That’s all I know.”

Paula Abdul continued the dream:

“Look there on your TV. There I am—see? Now tell me what to do.”

I looked at the TV in front of these hundred poor kids here to watch the game. It was an old-fashioned one, SONY, with no inputs but for one—the antennae—and skipping past the part where I wondered how they could see *anything*, I told Paula Abdul to make a heart shape with her hands and fingers and as soon as I said that, she did it!

Paula Abdul, right there on TV—right there for me.

I rode out of the gym and saw the meth guy again and I remembered (in the dream) something that seemed at the time to be a remembrance of another meth experience but which seemed at the time to be a remembrance of *another dream*, or a remembrance of dream—just created!—a memory of a memory, the second memory created *at the time!* to *seem* like a waking-life memory *of* another dream—I don’t know how I seem to you but this tangle tripped me solidly upon waking and it was a few minutes more before I took this dream within a dream to consist of another waking-life dream accessed by myself from within this secondary dream. It’s confusing, I know.

Somewhere in there was a stop to change planes. I stooped around this large airport sitting in a circular intersection of hallways, desperately checking that my carry on was beside me.

I sat down, removed my laptop. It had some of the snail puzzles on it—plus the code to generate them. I tapped this way and tapped thus, there was nowhere else to go with them. I had spent a lifetime (it seemed) in Tucson in front of a white board deducing what originally seemed a system of *two* states and *two* rules to what seemed now to be a system of *four* states with two rules. I could generate, with my new set of pieces, the table of 16 binary Boolean operators just by *copying* them with your hands, with visual pattern matching (and that’s what made this second rule set superior) but I could not generate the actual snail puzzles from them.

This concerned me as I sat alone in—which airport I can’t remember—working out the pattern matching, the visual copying of four rules which allowed *computation* to be known as simple creation and unfolding of patterns. They didn’t even have to be visual!—They could be calculated by a blind person—Even a person with no senses could *sense* this, deep in their brain, I had determined.

That and nervously picking at my coke pill: silver with a keychain and a screw-tight lid. I had carried it with me since I first started doing coke. It came from Amazon. In the airport I unscrewed it and tried tapping its (hopefully non-empty) contents onto my laptop cover. You’ve never lived until you’ve done coke off your MacBook. I was hoping to do some here but the silver pill box had nothing to offer. If you could somehow get your coke over the security points, doing coke in airports would be ideal: it would be a safe environment, no one would imagine you had coke on you and you could tap out lines in clear sight of everyone and they would go: *What? Is that what I just saw?* and they would say *Naw* and keep going.

I had a dangerously long layover—one could say a dangerous hangover—during which I could easily have exited the airport and ended up in Nashville, or Atlanta, or whatever city I was in. I could have easily met up with party people in an airport bar and from there gone off on some other adventure, something far more dastardly than the one I was on. Filled up my coke reserves and re-filled my silver pill box.

On the second leg of the flight I wasn’t fortunate enough to have a window seat. I was in the aisle and this meant there were duplicate waitresses-cum-stewardesses rubbing on my super-sensitive sides. Everyone seemed like they were on coke and everyone seemed like they could sell it to me.

I had a panicky moment wherein I doubted my entire goal: sleeping with Roberts was doubtable, unlikely: she had gained weight and had a child before our last meeting and I had been telling myself this time would be different: she would have lost weight (at least to her high school level) and the child wouldn’t be with her (that was a London baby that Roberts and her boyfriend had given to adoption)—when she had that baby and given her up, Roberts had suckered me into listening to her whole sob story, how they named her London and they *insisted* to the adopting couple that they keep her name and the adopting couple said *Sure, sure* and they obviously were going to change the baby’s name—*obviously*.

Roberts told me that story while I was pinned to the bar stool in a Dayton Thai place. Roberts always did that: kept you on the phone too long, long past when *anyone* would insist the conversation must end! She did it to everyone—I was one of the only people who would still talk to her (listen to her) and so my punishment grew. From a virgin boy who wanted to have sex with her to an experienced man who had sex with her and a lot of people, Roberts was always wasting my time. Always making a two-minute conversation into a ten-minute one. Always driving me crazy with superfluous monologues, over-emphasizing small points which Roberts claimed were big ones!

Years after this trip, several moves from city to city for me, Roberts found my number on Facebook and called it. I was on my last few minutes of cell time and that wasn’t even a factory when I finally said to her, “Stop. Roberts, stop. You always call me and dangle all this bullshit in front of my face, how your kids are doing and how this new man in your life is finally the perfect one..but then there is this unmatched thread where you introduce that he’s a wife beater or a drug addict or a crazy Christian. And you never get to it! You’re dragging me on for years with a story that could be told in a minute! Just stop, Roberts—please, stop. This is the last time we talk together. I have seen you for the last time. Don’t find me on Facebook. Don’t call this number—in a minute it will change. I love you—in a way. Were a high school thing. That turned into a fuck buddy thing. I had fun and I truly like you and I will always remember you well. You blew my mind—truly. And I appreciate that Dallas and Caycee have me as their godfather. That was nice if you—more than nice. But I’m not your children’s godfather. I’ll never see them. I’ll never see them, Roberts, as few or many years as you and I and they will pass. I will never see you, Roberts—never again.”

# 4

[shitizsrivastava]

TB#8 || Why a film director has to be a Good reader?

Reading books is a must. There is no denying the fact.

Every story you have heard about people showing up or being in the right place at the right time have one thing in common.

They are wrong and made up.

They eliminate the part where they were desperate, weak and were ready to do anything to get the job and start their stories right from where they got the job.

All those stories are hearsay which you hear from fellow struggling actors and wannabe directors.

Knowing inside stories constitutes one of the most interesting parts of the experience in the film industry and at times makes you passionate and motivate you towards cinema.

Don’t believe in hearsay. That is just random talk done to soothe your mind and it does not affect anything.

To get some verified data, try reading books.

Every great man in history has more or less been a good reader.

If you want to be a film director, a good one, then you have to be a reader.

How else you think you are going to read all those scripts and find the best one from it?

If you are not a good reader then you might end up becoming a director but not a very great one.

I have met directors who don’t even read the scripts.

They rely on their assistants to narrate them the scenes so that they can shoot it. I wonder how they started their career.

It’s either they have good connections or long assistant career.

Do you think they will make good directors?

Never.

Most of these directors are in TV field in which good content does not matter.

Since filmmaking is a specialized field so they never end up becoming a film director because filmmaking requires more meticulous preparation.

Hundreds of hours of writing, reading and re-reading go in before a good film turns out to be good.

I once interviewed the DOP of Rajkumar Hirani, C.K. Muralitharan.

He told me that Rajkumar Hirani and his writing partner Abhijat Joshi goes through more than 300 re-reading and drafting of the same script to make sure there is no fault or loophole in the script.

I believe that if someone goes through that much amount of hard work in making their movies then their films are ought to be a super hit.

None of the films of Hirani is a flop, leave flop, they are all blockbusters.

But why do you need to read books on filmmaking?

1. To know how others made their films and approached filmmaking?

2. To know what mistakes other filmmakers did and how you can avoid them.

3. To know more about films, shot taking, direction and writing.

Being part of any profession there is one thing that everyone must never forget —

The learning should never stop.

Just because you are out of film school or you have managed to make your first film does not mean that you have learned everything about cinema.

Cinema is an art form that has age beyond 100 years now.

There are things that you don’t know and there are things knowing which will make your films not only better but great.

I remember reading books on scriptwriting during my college days because I was interested in filmmaking.

There was a website called Passion for Cinema which would publish film scripts for its readers to read.

I would download them, take their printouts and read then, again and again, to understand how that script was written. Most of those scripts were from Anurag Kashyap.

There is a book by Syd field called “Screenplay: The foundation of Screenwriting” which is considered one of the best books on screenwriting which with the help of a screenplay of Chinatown makes you understand how the story should be written. According to him, the screenplay of Chinatown is one of the greatest screenplays written and he is right about it.

For a filmmaker, you must develop a habit of reading screenplays. They are ubiquitously available on the internet.

Download them and put them into your Kindle, iPad or laptop or whatever gadget you have and start reading them as soon as possible.

Before making The Shining, Stanley Kubrick couldn’t find any book or concept worth devoting his time and talent into.

In his biography written by his assistant, the author narrates how Kubrick would sit in his room entire day and keep reading new books till he found this book by Stephen King called The Shining and decided that it is going to be his next film.

I was once doing an ad film with Anurag Kashyap and one thing I noted about him was that he was continuously reading books throughout the shoot. He would always manage to find time between film direction and read books.

Ever wondered why the great and successful people are not much active on the internet.

It is because they are busy reading books to gather more knowledge and hone their skills.

Reading books gives you more visualization than watching a documentary on the same thing. Visualization is something which is a cornerstone of success for any director.

My biggest asset while reading books was that I got to know that nothing is easy in this world and everything takes its own due course of time.

Some filmmakers start early while some filmmakers start late to make their films.

Ang Lee struggled for six years from age 30 to 36. He was unemployed and kept working on his screenplays and kept polishing them. He submitted his screenplays to few Festivals and won some awards, which further led him to make his films.

The biographies had taught me a lot about film directors, their life, their struggle, their methods and their persistence to make a film.

Some of the best biographies to read are from Satyajit Ray, Andrei Tarkovsky, Kieslowski, Ritwik Ghatak, Martin Scorsese, James Cameron, Steven Spielberg, Robert Rodriguez among others.

You cannot experience everything on film sets and not everyone in the film line will sit with you, help you, guide you in becoming what you want to become.

You need mentors in life. Mentors help you guide in a certain direction and help you show you the way. Books will do the same for you.

Now coming to the practical aspects of how books can help you apart from developing your personality.

When you will be in the film industry people will talk to you about films and if you don’t know anything about the film industry it shows that you are there merely for superficial glamour purposes.

When I first went to Mumbai, I had read hundreds of blogs on filmmaking, read myriads of books and had seen thousands of films so when my first interview happened, I passed it with flying colours. Not only that, I impressed them all.

There were times when I was fortunate to sit with known filmmakers and get to talk to them. Since most of the people at the top of the film industry are avid film buffs and book readers, they were interested in talking to me about cinema theories, philosophies and how it evolved only because I had read so many books, had several anecdotes and trivia to tell.

So many times, it happened with me that due to my borrowed understanding of film writing from books I was given a chance to read scripts and give feedback based on that.

I knew about script structures and everything about them in details and a hundred percent of those times my analysis of the scripts solved their problems and they would keep calling me again and again. Later I started charging money for that. So, can you imagine, reading books helped me developed another source of living? I am not boasting about my skills here as none of this is a natural talent. I had to read numerous books and devote several hours to reach tot his point.

Book also taught me a lot about set blocking. I read a few books on the direction which I researched a lot on blocking of Alfred Hitchcock, who was a master of camera blocking and how the characters move on the screen. So imagine if you go on sets and you see a director setting the actor movements and blocking actors with respect to the camera. A normal person would be clueless about everything but if you had basic, even theoretic knowledge about set blocking, trust me, within two days you will become a pro at it.

The core foundation of developing any art is researching as much about it as possible and then explain it to someone else. If he understands it then you have done a good job. This is not me but Nobel Prize-winning Scientist and Theoretical physicist Feynman who said this.

You need to know how the art has evolved over time. It is not wise to start from beginning and makes the same mistakes that people before you had already made.

One of the best books that you can lay your hand on right now is How to read films. I borrowed the book from someone and I had finished it two times as I loved it so much. This book touches upon pretty much every topic within cinema, be it history, technique, film theory or whatnot.

You should start from reading biographies because they are light to read and then move on to the books which are technical, about art, have philosophy inside it and then read every book that comes near to your Goal.

Reading books gives you the inspiration that you can also do it. It motivates you to go ahead and do it rather than sitting on your ass and brooding how you are going to do it.

While, on one hand, The autobiography of Robert Rodriguez, A Rebel without a Crew, inspired me that I can make my own film in very less money, on the other hand, the biography of James Cameron told me that hard work always pays and if you work really hard to achieve your dream, you can get anything in life.

Reading screenplays taught me how the script must have been first read and then watching the movie on it made me imagine how and what must be going on sets to make those scenes alive. Scenes on paper are nothing but dead words which are made alive by the efforts of the film director, actors and another crew.

I realized my own screenplay style while reading those screenplays. For example, some writers write screenplays in a detailed amount of descriptions (James Cameron) while some writers (Aaron Sorkin) doesn’t write much in the description but are masters of dialogue.

Reading books about filmmaking also separates you from other people who don’t know what goes behind the screen. More than that whenever you will be on sets, you won’t be alien to the majority of things.

The biographies of film directors make you go inside their mind and then you will better understand what was going inside their minds while shooting a particular scene.

While reading the acclaimed director Ritwik Ghatak biography, I realized how great he was. He narrates a scene from his magnum opus Megha Dhake Tara. In that scene, a woman who is tormented from all sides is sitting with her lover. He is about to ditch her and there is the sound of whiplash you hear in the background.

At first, when I saw the film I didn’t notice anything but it affected me. After reading the book I again saw the film and witnessed the scene from another dimension, from the eyes of the director and understood it better.

First time I watched the film from my perspective and the next time I saw it from the perspective of the film director and it educated me with many things which I missed the first time.

Any scene in any film is an amalgamation of visuals, sound, art, acting, editing, camera and hundreds of other things which we feel but are not obvious to us so sometimes you have to get inside the minds of director to understand his film.

I am not just talking about art films but I am also talking about Commercial films where directors often shoot scenes expecting a different effect on the minds of the audience but the audience understands them in a different manner.

Here is a list of books you must begin reading with -

1. In the Blink of an Eye by Walter Murch

2. Shooting to Kill by Christine Vachon

3. On Directing Film by David Mamet

4. Story: Substance, Structure, Style and The Principles of Screenwriting by Robert McKee

5. The Filmmaker’s Handbook, 3rd Edition by Steven Ascher & Edward Pincus

6. Down and Dirty Pictures: Miramax, Sundance, and the Rise of Independent Film by Peter Biskind

7. The 5 Cs of Cinematography: Motion Picture Filming Techniques by Joseph V. Mascelli

8. The Techniques of Film Editing by Karel Reisz

9. Directing: Film Techniques & Aesthetics

10. How to Shoot a Feature Film for Under $10,000

Here is a list of biographies you must read

1. Rebel Without a Crew by Robert Rodriguez

2. Something like an autobiography by Akira Kurosawa

3. Adventures in the Screen Trade by William Goldman

4. Kazan on Directing by Elia Kazan

5. Spike Lee’s Gotta Have It, by Spike Lee

6. The Magic Lantern, by Ingmar Bergman

7. Sculpting in Time, by Andrey Tarkovsky

8. Speaking of Films, by Satyajit Ray

9. Jean-Luc Godard — Godard on Godard

10. Luis Buñuel — My Last Sigh

Here is a list of screenplays should begin reading with.

1. Casablanca

2. Psycho

3. Chinatown

4. The Godfather

5. American Beauty

6. Memento

7. Eternal Sunshine of a Spotless Mind

8. The Sting

9. Pulp Fiction

10. 12 Angry Men

[cinenthusiast]

Previous Top Ten By Year lists:  1935, 1983, 1965, 1943, 1992, 1978, 1925, 1969 1930

Previous Top Ten By Year: 1949 Posts: Top Ten By Year: 1949 – Poll Results 100 Images from the Films of 1949 What I’ll Remember About the Films of 1949: A Love Letter #10. The Queen of Spades (UK/Dickinson)  #9. Rendezvous in July (Becker)/Au royaume des cieux (Duvivier) (France) #8. Too Late for Tears (US / Haskin)  #7. The Heiress (US / Wyler)  #6. The Set-Up (US / Wise)  #5. Caught (US / Ophüls) #4. The Passionate Friends (UK / Lean)  #3. Puce Moment (US / Anger) #2. The Third Man (UK / Reed) 

For those unaware of my Top Ten By Year project:  The majority of my viewing habits have been dictated by this project since September of 2013. Jumping to a different decade each time, I choose comparatively weaker years for me re: quantity of films seen/quantity of films loved. I use list-making as a way to see more films and revisit others in a structured and project-drive way. I was sick of spending too much time trying to decide what to watch, or watching films just to cross them off another dumb canon list. I wanted to engage. I wanted films to be enhanced by others, by looking at a specific moment in time. I wanted something that led me to seeing or revisiting things I might not have gotten to otherwise. Lastly, my lists are based on personal favorites, not any weird notion of an objective best.

This is the first year I’ll be doing separate posts for each film. #9 will go up Monday. After that, one will go up each day until the end. Then I’ll post them all together so they are gathered in one place. There are a lot of films I loved that did not make the cut. In particular, Flamingo Road, Such a Pretty Little Beach, On the Town, Inspirace, The Reckless Moment, Reign of Terror, The Rocking Horse Winner, and Samson and Delilah are all films I thought at one point would be on here. Of all of these, Flamingo Road was a sure thing until it wasn’t at the very last minute. Please go watch it.

#1. Bitter Rice (Italy / De Santis) (first-time watch)

Two women and two cultures intertwined.

There are two sides to Bitter Rice. One has neorealism, Silvana, and Italy. The other has film noir, Francesca, and America. When all is said and done these two women will have swapped places, for better and much worse. And when Italy’s other neorealist filmmakers see Bitter Rice, they will take it as a betrayal of truth and the political. In short, they hated it. In this time of crucial political upheaval when neorealism carried legitimate cultural cache, director Giuseppe De Santis had made something too slick, too tawdry, and too American. The message was tarnished by the method. But De Santis was a Marxist who happened to admire and study John Ford, King Vidor, and the visual patterns of Hollywood studio filmmaking. He saw mass appeal as a way to both entertain and denounce, and made a film in which neorealism is hijacked and reconfigurated to be a noir melodrama.

Bitter Rice has a lot of recognizably neorealist markers; location shooting, a focus on labor and economic struggle, the tactile particulars of rice worker life, and the use of the specific cultural practices such as the choral Coralita. The sound of women wading through water, the way it would around their legs, and the strain of being hunched over day after day — it’s all made vivid. But it is easy to see why Bitter Rice would seem a betrayal. Its mutinous synthesis of “authenticity” and artificiality was a signpost towards neorealism’s end. Soon there would be stars, genre, production in the Italian film industry.

The synthesis is clear from the very first scene. The authenticity of the mondine (female rice workers) is introduced with grandiosity and sweep. There are no docu-elements here, but plenty of elaborate tracking and crane shots to go around, the kind of gradually encompassing images you’d be more likely to find in a DeMille epic. Watching the very first scene I thought: “Wait — what am I in for?”. All preconceived notions were immediately scrapped, and I realized my trip to the rice fields of Po Valley would be a very different one indeed. Then, a couple carrying stolen jewels are chased into the station waiting to transport the workers to the fields. Their arrival feels like an alien invasion, as if some freak chemical accident at the film lab spilled one film into another. This dichotomy plays throughout with electric and arresting cohesion, making it so distinctly unlike any other film from its movement. 

While De Santis was inspired by the Hollywood narrative format, he also uses American culture’s insidious postwar presence to illustrate the dangers of breaking from solidarity for hollow (the fake jewels!) individual gain. This is done using the two incredible and complex women of Bitter Rice‘s center. After Francesca the Moll (Doris Dowling, an American actress) is forced to assimilate in the rice fields, she finds purpose among the mondine. In order to stay in hiding, she has to advocate for the rights of her fellow non-contract workers. But this is never done as a means to an end. Francesca never schemes to stay on; she is always shown as sincerely leading the protests for the group. Life becomes bigger than herself, and she learns to stand both as her own woman, and as part of the mondine.

Francesca also begins to see her personal life more clearly. You get the sense that despite loving Walter (Vittorio Gassman), she is not blind to how reprehensible he is (I mean, in the first scene he literally used her as a human shield so….). But she had nowhere to go, and no strength to pull away. Life in Po Valley gives her that strength. The value of the collective is present throughout, with choral scenes, aerial shots showcasing the lines of working women linked together, and fragments of peripheral characters and their various troubles. They push themselves to the brink under oppressive conditions just to make it to the next job, and there is power in their (at times friction-filled) solidarity (I was also reminded of last year’s Support the Girls, also about a community of women united by unforgiving labor).

Then there is the shrewd but naive young Silvana (Silvana Mangano, who I’ll talk about later), a peasant that dreams of wealth. She is seduced by all things coded America and money (she should talk to Caught’s Leonora!). We first meet her doing the boogie woogie (she does a lot of dancing, employed for seduction and statement). In this group of women, where everyone is introduced as part of a whole, she immediately stands out as modern. She chews gum, loves big-band, and is seen reading photo-romances, the then-popular prepackaged fantasies that were read by lower and working class Italian women. Silvana wants out; she longs for adventure, riches, and a certain kind of romance. But the way out that presents itself is a different kind of way out, and she is too blinded by inexperience to understand it.

The camera links Francesca and Silvana all the time. Whether in two-shots or individual spaces, there is an invisible tether between them. Their lives and fates take part in a film-length body-swap. Silvana talks about fate a lot, but is seen making deliberate choices towards certain doom. She can’t see Walter for what he is — an exploiter and a monster. But Francesca gives her an out, replaying about her life with Walter and the terrible things he has done. She tries to take the abuse and hardship she lived through and save someone else from making the mistakes she did. But Silvana can’t see past the jewels and the suit. There is only the potential for excitement, for something that is not this. After all, Walter “looks like a gentleman” (aka a hotshot gumshoe); so he must be, right? While Francesca’s transformation is one of victorious camaraderie, Silvana’s (both actress and character) is altogether much murkier; one marked by punishment.

Silvana Mangano never wanted her body to represent the whole of Italy, but it did. Audiences were scandalized just seeing the unapologetically full female form (au natural, code for Armpit Hair), the kind that becomes sexualized simply by existing. She was the prototype of the “earthy women” that would cause such a stir overseas (later embodied by Gina Lollobrigida and Sophia Loren). She started out by winning Miss Rome, a post-war contest that further enhanced the idea of body-as-nation, and an honor that became synonymous with future screen tests. Unlike Lollobrigida and Loren, Mangano didn’t cash in on overseas notoriety for a Hollywood career. She became resentful of her image, and of fame, eventually giving herself a drastic reinvention (her figure was now svelte and arch, her look cold) and starring in art films by Pasolini and Visconti in the late 1960s and 1970s (and Dune!).

The camera doesn’t ogle Mangano Tex Avery style; this isn’t Jane Russell in The Outlaw. But it aims to stay back, taking in the whole of her whenever possible. And you can’t help but take part in that — I love looking at her. She is the textbook case for why the male gaze is not an open-and-shut. For all its appallingly absolute authority on the almost-whole of filmic language, women enjoy it too! One of the great joys of watching films is watching bodies, both male and female. I am hypnotized and, yes, completely turned on by Silvana Mangano in Bitter Rice. The camera may not be that Tex Avery wolf, but I’ll admit that I am. 

Critics felt her body, and Bitter Rice’s eroticism as represented by her, cheapened the film and nullified its political message. Yet a crucial part of its political message is the punishment her and her body endures for betraying the homeland (a tactic that opens up a whole other can of worms). She is eroticized, symbolic, made into a cautionary tale. Her final fugue march is just like Ann Todd’s in The Passionate Friends. Claude Rains gets there in time. Francesca cannot.

(TW: rape)

She is raped. It is a rape that takes away her body. We don’t see much of it after that. In those last thirty minutes she is made up of haunted black pupils, lit like she’s telling a ghost story. She is immediately ostracized by the filmmaking, quarantined off in shots of the mondine in ways you feel more than see. It’s not obvious, but intrinsic and heartbreaking. The most startling example takes place immediately following her assault. It is pouring out (during these scenes a stunning rain shower falls right in front of the camera like a curtain) and the women have banded together, refusing to let the weather set them behind schedule. Silvana walks in a daze, confused and in shock. Ahead, a sick woman who shouldn’t be out in her condition begins having an attack. She howls out, and begins writhing in pain as the women surround her and hold her down. They begin to sing in an attempt to calm her (they are all one). Silvana looks on in horror. This is a mirror image of what she just went through, her trauma reflecting right back at her. She is watching herself. She begins to scream. She is drowned out, not part of the coralita, not part of anything anymore. Her cries go unheard.

The meat locker finale is one last compare-and-contrast session. Both women have guns. Both women have a man beside them. One is shaking and shaken. The other is determined and resolute. Francesca is still trying to save the other end of the tether. There is something so moving and uncommon in Francesca’s committed efforts to protect Silvana despite the harm she causes and rivalry she insists on. It’s hard to put into words how much I love these women, these characters, these performances. Bitter Rice pays such close attention to how women communicate with each other (in both speech and body language, the silent glares and stares may as well be full conversations), and to the breadth of female experience, struggle, and loyalty. We see how hard it is for Francesca to break away from Walter. We see that Silvana’s sense of right and wrong are muddied by what she wants out of life. We see that Silvana’s actions are not unfeeling; there is such pain on her face as she undoes the mondine’s hard work. The list goes on as more layers are pulled back. 

Watching Bitter Rice is that all-too rare sensation of not knowing where a film is headed, or what story it will tell (unless you’ve read this before watching). Francesca and Silvana are often hard to read. By the end, that body swap trajectory is clear, but only at the end. And despite the larger-than-life symbolic statuses they represent, they are two of the most layered and human women I’ve ever seen onscreen. They don’t fit into any neat box — not within neorealism, and not within noir. Francesca and Silvana are with me now, and I’m the better for it.

Top Ten By Year: 1949 #1 – Bitter Rice (Italy / De Santis) Previous Top Ten By Year lists:  1935, 1983, 1965, 1943, 1992,