Years ago, early in our relationship, when there was love but far less certainty, Lili and I were on our way to meet a couple friends for a hike.
It was early, the day was full of promise, but also foreboding, because it was too early and we’re both anxious people in even the safest of social situations.
Then the song “Good Morning,” sung by Debbie Reynolds, Gene Kelly and Donald O’Connor, blossomed out of the radio, promising that sunbeams will soon smile through, injecting life into our veins.
Until Lili side-swiped her car into the curb when parking. And…
“Be curious, not judgmental.” — Ted Lasso c/o Walt Whitman
My first experience with Ted Lasso was its trailers… and I hated them. I had no interest in watching a show about a bumbling white American male coming to Europe to coach a soccer team. To me, it was representative of the inevitable failure of Apple TV+, a streaming app that couldn’t be bothered to come up with a unique name (apparently our future will be dominated by Pluses, Maxes and Primes).
Then Ted Lasso came out and I kept hearing glowing raves about it. My artsy friends, my sporty…
Great pieces of art not only open your eyes to parts of the world you’re ignorant of, but enlighten you on your own perspective of it.
Over the past year and a half, we’ve all felt lonely and isolated in our homes, complaining about toilet paper and not being able to drink in public. But there are giant swaths of the population who have been living in isolation throughout this country for years, for decades, for ever, refugees from an unforgiving capitalist system that doesn’t need or want them. “Them” being the operative word — these people aren’t like us.
We all grew up believing that Jurassic Park was the best dinosaur movie of all time. But, as becomes abundantly clear when weighing their merits in this titanic testicular stand-off, it’s not even the best dinosaur film of the early 90s. That honor goes to Tammy and the T-Rex, one of cinema’s greatest treasures.
There’s not a wasted frame in Stewart Raffill’s gleeful Frankenstein cocktail of a flick, replete with a mesozoic twist and robot garnish. When we see the wheels under the T-Rex in the reflection of a car, it’s dripping with auteurist intent. When we see Denise Richards…
“Another’s been born in Seattle.”
Most evil baby movies merely focus on the carnage wrought by monstrous infants upon our unsuspecting world. Very few of them consider who created these babies, who brought this evil into the world, and who might bear some responsibility.
Ostensibly, Larry Cohen’s It’s Alive is about the horror of parenting and bringing a child into this scary world. But, really, it’s about what happens when a husband and wife are no longer connecting, are no longer in love, yet continue to produce children, and the real cost our world pays for such a grievous mistake.
This movie doesn’t know what kind of movie it wants to be. Or, more accurately, its producers didn’t know what kind of movie it was. Gary Sherman’s film was released as Death Line when it originally came out in 1972 in the UK, but was subsequently renamed Raw Meat to attract hungry cult film fans stateside.
As such, I didn’t know what kind of movie I was in for — which is normally my favorite scenario in which to discover a film, but last night I was far from captivated by this Criterion classic.
The next day playing it back…
“I sit here and I can’t believe that it happened. And yet I have to believe it. Dreams or nightmares? Madness or sanity? I don’t know which is which.” -Jessica
Me neither, Jessica. Every day I oscillate between both extremes, or fantasize of the possibility, instead falling in that unsatisfying and realistic middle ground. Thankfully, movies like John Hancock’s Let’s Scare Jessica to Death exist to stretch my brain and tempt further leaps into honesty and nightmare.
The Lair of the White Worm is a deliciously sacrilegious adaptation of Bram Stoker’s 1911 novel of the same name.
Here’s the pitch: Gawky Hugh Grant with his pre-celebrity unibrow and lustrous long-haired Peter Capaldi get caught in the nest of man-devouring worm woman Amanda Donohoe, delivering an arousing performance that had the wife and I dreaming of her wardrobe.
You’re such a slog
My head’s a fog
So much to unclog
You could’ve been so prog(ressive)
But why’d you kill that dog?
Joan Crawford just wanted a snog
You could’ve made a good blog
We could’ve played pog
But you reminded me of a certain demagogue
Why is Trog part of the Criterion collection? Why is Trog part of a “horror series that collects some of the grimiest, goriest and most inventive nightmares from the decade that revolutionized the genre”?
Some mysteries of science will forever remain unclear. Directed by Freddie Francis…
“They actually told me my son was dead.”
Three months before Bob Clark’s masterpiece Black Christmas was released and changed horror forever, the director also unveiled Deathdream (or its bland alternative title, Dead of Night).
This Vietnam War indictment, about a soldier who returns home undead, further cements Clark as an Andy whisperer. It certainly doesn’t hurt that the undead soldier in question is named Andy.
Days after Charles and Christine Brooks receive word that their son died in Vietnam, Andy returns, the miraculous answer to a mother’s prayer. Except, of course, that Andy isn’t exactly… Andy anymore.
A writer when his cat allows, located in beautiful downtown Burbank, CA.