It's me, Pete... from the podcast.

Trap is Trapped in its Own Cage

I haven’t been to many arena shows, but of the total, three of them were Prince. They’re incredible. Twenty thousand screaming fans, pulsating lights, the deafening roar of amplified music. This, the very essence of a modern pop spectacle, is the setting for M. Night Shyamalan’s latest thriller, “Trap.” It’s a promising premise, a high-concept thriller with a built-in ticking clock. And yet, as does a punctured balloon, the film quickly loses its air, leaving behind a limp, floppy, unsatisfying experience.

“Trap” follows Cooper, played by a game but ultimately misused Josh Hartnett, a seemingly ordinary dad attending a Lady Raven concert with his daughter. But Cooper harbors a dark secret: he’s the Butcher, a notorious serial killer. The authorities, aware of his presence, have set a trap, turning the concert into a high-stakes game of cat and mouse. That’s the set-up. That was also the trailer.

The problem with “Trap” isn’t the concept itself. It’s the execution, which feels appropriately clumsy for Shyamalan, whose recent films have all carried a similar set of frustrations. The film suffers from a series of baffling creative choices, starting with the perplexing decision to reveal the central twist early on. This deflates any sense of suspense, leaving the film meandering through a series of increasingly improbable scenarios.

Shyamalan employs a distracting technique throughout the film, having his actors stare directly into the lens during key moments of dialogue. This awkward fourth-wall breaking (I don’t know what else to call it), rather than adding intrigue, pulls the viewer out of the story. It’s a stylistic flourish that feels both unnecessary and detrimental to the film’s overall tone. In a thriller, where immersion is crucial, this technique feels particularly jarring.

And then there are the performances, which, with the notable exception of Ariel Donoghue as the daughter, range from wooden to unconvincing. Hartnett, despite his efforts, struggles to embody the duality of his character. The script, lacking in nuance, offers little support, and the direction seems to exacerbate the stiffness. There’s a palpable disconnect between the words on the page and the emotions on screen, leaving the performances feeling hollow and inauthentic.

Even the film’s strengths are ultimately undermined by its weaknesses. The concert setting, initially promising, is poorly utilized. The cinematography, oddly fixated on the arena’s jumbotrons, creates a sense of distance, robbing the scenes of their potential energy. And the music, while effectively capturing the pop concert vibe, feels disconnected from the narrative.

The truth is that we never needed to meet Lady Raven at all. We didn’t need most of the third act. The film strayed from its shallow roots when it left the arena, a setting so perfectly unsettling I’m stymied how the filmmakers were able to misuse it so.

“Trap” is a film that feels trapped by its own limitations. See what I did there? Nailed it. It’s a missed opportunity, a thriller that lacks thrills, a suspense film devoid of suspense.

The Hunt for Red October: One Ping Only, Please

The Cold War. Remember the Cold War? I was just a kid throughout and I’m sure at some level, I imagined that if we had sent blankets, we could have warmed them up. What we had instead was a prolonged, icy standoff between two superpowers, each clutching enough nuclear power to turn the planet into a cinder. It was a time of paranoia, of whispers in dimly lit rooms, of shadows moving just beyond the periphery of vision. And within that context, a specific, almost anthropological, curiosity emerged: the submarine thriller.

The Hunt for Red October, John McTiernan’s 1990 adaptation of Tom Clancy’s breakout novel, isn’t just a good submarine thriller. It’s a perfect submarine thriller. It scratches an itch I didn’t know I had, a yearning for a specific kind of tension, a claustrophobic cat-and-mouse game played out in the crushing depths of the Atlantic.

The film’s brilliance is in its explosions (natch), and its action sequences (so good), but in equal measure in its quiet moments. It’s in the hushed exchanges between Sean Connery’s Captain Marko Ramius and his officers, the subtle shift in Alec Baldwin’s Jack Ryan’s eyes as he pieces together the puzzle of Ramius’s intentions. It’s in the hum of the submarine’s engines, a constant, low-frequency thrum that vibrates through the audience, a physical manifestation of the pressure cooker environment these men inhabit.

Baldwin, in an early career-defining role, embodies Ryan’s intellectual agility. He’s not a seasoned field agent; he’s an analyst, a bookworm. He is potential. Later films struggle with finding the same balance in the character that Baldwin captures out of the gate.

Connery. What can be said about Connery that hasn’t already been carved in cinematic lore? The beard, the swept-back silver hair – it’s a follicular masterpiece, a testament to the power of a good grooming regimen, even in the face of impending nuclear war. This is Connery at his most Connery-esque, a performance for the ages.

McTiernan’s direction is masterful, balancing the technical intricacies of submarine warfare with the human drama unfolding within the steel confines of Red October. The film’s pacing is impeccable, slowly ratcheting up the tension until the final, breathtaking climax. The underwater sequences are particularly impressive, even by today’s standards, standing as a testament to the ingenuity of the pre-CGI era.

The Hunt for Red October is a Cold War thriller. It’s a study in leadership. It’s a meditation on loyalty. And it’s a thrilling exploration of the human capacity for both good and evil.

The Relentless Sculptor

It’s a peculiar thing, time. We talk about it as a constant, a drumbeat marching us forward, yet there are these mornings … mornings where it feels like the world is holding its breath, like the second hand on the clock is frozen in amber. On my dog walk this morning, I was confronted by a profound sense of gratitude. Gratitude for the intricate tapestry of this community, the threads of connection that bind us together, the shared laughter and quiet support that make life richer and more meaningful. It’s a feeling of belonging, of being held by something larger than yourself. To scroll through and see the faces, to feel the pulse of this shared existence – it’s a gift, a precious anomaly in the vastness of the universe.

Within gratitude, there’s also the reassuring presence of loved ones, the sheer, improbable luck of health. It all feels so fragile, so perfectly balanced, that I almost fear to exhale. It’s the kind of stillness that whispers of impermanence.

Because we know, deep down, in that place where my anxieties like to gather, that this stillness is an illusion. Time is a relentless sculptor and is always at work, chipping away, reshaping. We might perceive it as static in these quiet moments, but the truth is, it’s a river, constantly flowing, carrying us along whether we’re ready or not. For example, two years will come and go in a blink. A fleeting moment, like a hummingbird’s wings against the morning light. And just like that, the landscape will shift again. The familiar contours of our lives, the things we cling to for stability – including this very community – will rearrange themselves yet again in small ways and large. The spectre of change, that shadowy figure we try to ignore, will step into the light, demanding our attention.

There’s no contract, no guarantee that what lies on the other side of that blink of time will be easy, that the path forward will be clearly marked and free of obstacles. The complexities of life, the inevitable tangles and uncertainties, will undoubtedly persist. But this, too, is part of the shared human experience. And within this community, within the bonds we’ve forged, lies a quiet strength, a collective resilience. We’ll face whatever comes, not alone, but together, navigating the unknown with the shared wisdom, the helping hands, and the unwavering support that defines who we are. We’ll figure it out, somehow. It’s what we do. It’s the quiet promise whispered in the stillness of mornings like this one. It’s the strength we get to draw from the knowledge that we are not alone in the current of time.

Kin-dza-dza! Ku to You and You and You

The matchstick is an unremarkable object, easily overlooked, readily discarded. Yet on the desert planet Pluke, it is a prized possession. It’s a symbol of wealth and power, the very engine of the economy. This is the central paradox of Kin-dza-dza!, a 1986 Soviet film that uses the seemingly trivial to illuminate the profound.

The film follows two unwitting Muscovites, Uncle Vova, a foreman with a worldview as solid as a concrete slab, and Gedevan, a sort-of violinist with a head full of melodies, who stumble through a portal to Pluke. It’s a world of rusty spaceships, telepathic aliens, and a rigid social hierarchy. It’s here, amidst the sand dunes and scrap metal, that Daneliya, the film’s director, constructs a brilliant, if slightly off-kilter, social experiment.

For example, take the word “Ku.” On Pluke, it is the linguistic equivalent of a Swiss Army knife, a single word deployed to express a multitude of meanings. It’s a testament to the power of context and a demonstration of how meaning is shaped not just by words themselves but also by the subtle cues of intonation and body language. I suspect it’s also a sly commentary on the doublespeak and empty rhetoric that permeated Soviet society.

These sand-blasted eccentrics, the inhabitants of Pluke, are divided into two castes: the Chatlanians and the Patsaks. The distinction, determined by a flashing light on a handheld device, is arbitrary and nonsensical. Yet it dictates every aspect of their lives, from the clothes they wear to the rituals they perform. It’s a stark reminder of how easily humans can be manipulated and how readily we embrace even the most absurd social hierarchies.

But Kin-dza-dza! isn’t just a political satire. It’s a film that explores the universal human experience, our longing for connection, and our search for meaning in a world that often seems devoid of it. Adrift in this alien landscape, Uncle Vova and Gedevan become stand-ins for all of us, grappling with the complexities of human interaction, the challenges of communication, and the search for belonging.

The film’s genius lies in its ability to blend the fantastical with the familiar. The spaceships, cobbled together from junk, are a testament to human ingenuity, a symbol of our ability to create something from nothing. And the landscape of Pluke, desolate yet strangely beautiful, becomes a mirror to our own world, reflecting our anxieties about environmental degradation, social inequality, and the uncertain future of our planet.

Kin-dza-dza! is a film that rewards close attention but doesn’t demand it. It’s a film that challenges our assumptions, provokes our thinking, and stays with us… or it’s an afternoon on a playground. It’s a testament to the power of storytelling, the enduring appeal of the strange and the wonderful. Or, it’s just plain fun.

★★★★☆ 🧡

Halloween II: Where Are All The People?

Ahhh, the hospital. The eerily quiet, sparsely populated Haddonfield Memorial. A place where the antiseptic smell of disinfectant struggles to mask the creeping dread that permeates every linoleum-tiled, barely-lit corridor. This, my friends, is the unlikely stage for Halloween II, Rick Rosenthal’s 1981 sequel to John Carpenter’s slasher primer.

Now, sequels, as we know, can be tricky business. They often fall flat, a pale imitation of their predecessor. But Halloween II, I’ll argue, manages to avoid that particular sophomore slump. It’s not a reinvention of the wheel, but it’s a surprisingly sturdy follow-up.

The film picks up precisely where the first left off, with Laurie Strode, our traumatized babysitter, whisked away to Haddonfield Memorial. Dr. Loomis, meanwhile, is still on the hunt for Michael Myers, a man so dedicated to his craft that six bullets and a two-story fall seem to have only mildly inconvenienced him. Loomis remains, shall we say, a character of singular focus. He’s less a psychiatrist and more a self-appointed, slightly unhinged, Michael Myers stalker-cum-exterminator.

But the real shift here is the environment. The sterile, fluorescent-lit halls of the hospital replace the shadowy suburban streets of the original. And this, I think, is where the sequel finds its footing. There’s a different kind of tension at play, a claustrophobia that ratchets up the suspense. Michael, lurking in the shadows, becomes a phantom menace, a bogeyman sans surgical scrubs.

Of course, the film isn’t without its flaws. The plot, while serviceable, isn’t exactly groundbreaking. And yes, some of the acting is a touch enthusiastic. But there’s a certain charm to the film’s B-movie sensibilities. The kills are more graphic, more visceral, a clear nod to the burgeoning slasher trend of the early 80s.

And then there’s the sibling twist. The revelation that Laurie and Michael are related is a “bold choice.” It’s the kind of narrative hand grenade that can either explode brilliantly or blow up the entire movie. Here, it’s more of a slow burn. It adds a layer of intrigue, a hint of Greek tragedy to the proceedings. But it also raises questions. Does it demystify Michael? Does it diminish his terrifying blankness? The jury’s still out on that one.

Ultimately, Halloween II is a solid, if not spectacular, sequel. It capitalizes on the strengths of the original while carving out its own niche in the slasher landscape. It’s a film that understands the power of atmosphere, the chilling effect of a quiet hallway, a darkened room. And while it may not reach the heights of its predecessor, it’s a worthy addition to the Halloween canon.

★★★☆☆ 🧡

Becoming SNL

There’s a magic, an alchemy, that occurs when disparate elements collide and coalesce into something greater than the sum of their parts. The Beatles, four lads from Liverpool, individually talented, but together, a force that reshaped the fabric of popular music. Or consider the unlikely circumstances that led to the invention of penicillin, a chance discovery that revolutionized medicine. Jason Reitman’s “Saturday Night,” a film chronicling the tumultuous birth of “Saturday Night Live,” is neither as resonant as The Beatles, nor as consequential as penicillin, and even so, it captures the essence of creative combustion, this lightning-in-a-bottle moment where talent, ambition, and dumb luck converge.

“Saturday Night” doesn’t just tell a story; it immerses you in the pressure cooker of Studio 8H, circa 1975. The clock is ticking, relentlessly counting down to the moment of truth, the live broadcast premiere. Lorne Michaels, played with a compelling blend of nervous energy and quiet determination by Gabriel LaBelle, is the eye of the storm. He’s the conductor of a chaotic orchestra, a ringmaster trying to corral a menagerie of outsized personalities and unpredictable events.

Reitman constructs a narrative that mirrors the very structure of the show it celebrates. The film unfolds in a series of vignettes, a whirlwind of backstage encounters, creative clashes, and near-disasters. We see the nascent “Not Ready for Prime Time Players” – Chevy Chase’s preening arrogance perfectly captured by Cory Michael Smith, Dan Aykroyd’s manic brilliance embodied by Dylan O’Brien, John Belushi’s volatile genius simmering beneath Matt Wood’s performance.

Having watched the first episode of SNL just before viewing the film, I was struck by the meticulous attention to detail, the almost obsessive commitment to recreating not just the look and feel of the era, but the very spirit of those early broadcasts. From the costumes to the set design, from the cadence of the dialogue to the grainy texture of the 16mm film, Reitman transports us back to a time when television felt raw, unpredictable, and genuinely exciting.

But Saturday Night is more than just a nostalgic trip down memory lane. It’s a nuanced exploration of the creative process, a testament to the messy, unpredictable, and often frustrating journey of bringing an idea to life. The film doesn’t shy away from the challenges, disagreements, or moments of self-doubt. It acknowledges the inherent tension between artistic vision and commercial realities and the delicate balance between collaboration and compromise.

And in the end, it’s this honesty, this willingness to embrace the complexities of the creative process, that makes “Saturday Night” so compelling. It’s a film that toasts not just the triumph of “Saturday Night Live,” but the enduring power of human ingenuity, the remarkable capacity of individuals to come together — transcend almost all ego — and create something truly extraordinary.

★★★★☆ 🧡

Hundreds of Beavers Is a Love Letter to Slapstick

Here we are, a return to my journey to watch the Top Four of my Letterboxd friends lists. This is a bit of a cheat; even though it does fall next in line on Nick Langdon’s row of praise, it’s not new to me. This is a third watch, though I’ve never actually reviewed it. This Top Four hooliganry makes for a perfect excuse to do just that.

Hundreds of Beavers is a bracing slap of icy lake water to my face. A glorious, improbable, black-and-white paean to slapstick, it’s a film that feels both ancient and utterly new. It’s Buster Keaton wrestling not just with inanimate objects but with a horde of beavers clad in those unnervingly blank-faced mascot costumes. It’s unfolding not in dusty vaudeville halls, but in the biting, snowy wilderness of the American Midwest. It is the strange, beautiful landscape of Hundreds of Beavers.

Director Mike Cheslik, with co-writer and star Ryland Brickson Cole Tews, has crafted a film that operates on uncut id. It’s the primal ooze of creativity and a testament to the sheer joy of making something sensationally weird. The plot, such as it is, follows Jean Kayak (Tews), a hapless applejack salesman thrust into the unforgiving wilderness. He must learn to survive, to become a trapper, to conquer… well… all of the beavers. And also some sociopathic raccoons, a pack of wolves, and a persnickety trader.

But plot is merely the scaffolding upon which Cheslik and Tews hang a dizzying array of visual gags. The film is a masterclass in physical comedy, a symphony of pratfalls, chases, and escalating absurdity. Tews, with his super-elastic limbs and face, is a revelation. He channels the spirit of Chaplin and Keaton, while adding a distinctly modern and manic energy. The beavers, meanwhile, are a force of nature, a furry, chaotic collective that embodies both menace and hilarity.

The film’s aesthetic is as striking as its humor. Shot in crisp black and white, it evokes the silent era while embracing a distinctly DIY aesthetic. The special effects, created entirely in After Effects as I understand it, are deliberately lo-fi, adding to the film’s ramshackle charm. This isn’t slick Hollywood polish; it’s the rough-hewn beauty of a hand-carved wooden toy. And like a well-crafted toy, Hundreds of Beavers is designed for pure, unadulterated play.

Yes, the film’s 108-minute runtime probably should have been trimmed. Yes, some gags land harder than others. But these are minor quibbles in the face of such joyful filmmaking. Hundreds of Beavers is a film that reminds me what fun it is to make movies, to experiment, to laugh and showcase unbridled silliness. It’s a film that dares to be ridiculous, to be utterly, gloriously itself. In a world that often feels too serious, too predictable, Hundreds of Beavers is a much-needed dose of joyful chaos. It’s a film that will leave you grinning, gasping, and perhaps even wondering if you, too, should don a beaver costume and run amok in the snow. Sign me up for a sequel.

A Bucketful of Brilliance: Roger Corman’s A Bucket of Blood Still Resonates

Roger Corman’s A Bucket of Blood, a film seemingly as unassuming as its protagonist, Walter Paisley, packs a surprising punch. Like a perfectly mixed cocktail, it blends dark humor, biting satire, and a dash of Grand Guignol into a potent 62-minute brew. While some of the ingredients might have aged slightly, the overall concoction remains intoxicatingly effective.

Dick Miller, bless his cotton socks, delivers a performance of captivating awkwardness as Walter. He embodies the “adorable doofus” archetype with such conviction that we initially find ourselves rooting for him, even as his actions become increasingly disturbing. This is where the film’s brilliance lies: it mirrors the insidious nature of ambition and how easily the desire for acceptance can morph into something monstrous. Walter’s transformation, though swift, is compelling, echoed generations later in the tragically comedic descent of figures like Breaking Bad’s Walter White. In their own darkly humorous ways, both Walters stumble into infamy, driven by a potent cocktail of insecurity and ego.

Corman masterfully skewers the pretensions of the beatnik art scene, portraying its denizens as a collection of posers more concerned with appearances and the next paycheck than genuine artistic expression. Their desperation for validation, for a piece of the cultural pie, is palpable, making them both amusing and pathetic. This satire, though rooted in the anxieties of the late 1950s, still resonates today, offering a timeless commentary on the fickle nature of fame and the absurdities of the art world.

Despite being filmed in black and white, A Bucket of Blood is surprisingly vibrant. Corman uses evocative language and imagery – the recurring motif of the “yellow door,” the stark contrast of blood against monochrome – to paint a vivid picture in the viewer’s mind. This clever use of language compensates for the lack of color, creating a world that feels both real and slightly surreal.

The film’s brisk pacing is a virtue. At a mere 62 minutes, it never outstays its welcome. Every scene serves a purpose, propelling the narrative forward with an efficiency often absent in today’s bloated blockbusters. While I admire the tight narrative focus, I can’t help but feel certain threads could have been further explored. The landlady, for instance, hints at a deeper, more complex story that remains tantalizingly just out of reach.

While the practical effects initially impress, particularly the detail in the early clay sculptures, the quality noticeably dips towards the climax. Walter’s final creation feels rushed and almost amateurish. Whether this was a budgetary constraint or a deliberate choice to reflect Walter’s deteriorating mental state is open to interpretation, but it does slightly detract from the overall visual impact.

These are quibbles, minor flaws that do little to diminish the film’s overall impact. A Bucket of Blood is a self-assured piece of filmmaking, a darkly comedic gem that knows exactly what it wants to be and achieves it with aplomb. It might not be a film that stays with you long after the credits roll, but it certainly offers a fun and frivolous reflection on the nature of art, the allure of fame, and the terrifyingly thin line between adoration and obsession. It’s a bucketful of brilliance, and one well worth dipping into.

Joker: Folie à Deux • 2024

This film, this Folie à Deux, it’s a peculiar beast. A glittering, unsettling thing, like a shard of glass embedded in a velvet glove. It lures you in with the promise of spectacle, of Joaquin Phoenix’s raw, visceral performance – a performance so compelling it almost makes you forget the monstrous nature of the character he inhabits. And the camera, oh the camera! Lawrence Sher, the cinematographer, paints with light and shadow, capturing the textures of decay, the grotesque beauty of a face contorted in laughter or rage. Every pore, every fleck of makeup, is rendered with a precision that borders on the obsessive. It’s a feast for the eyes, even as it makes your stomach churn.

Phoenix, of course, is magnificent. He doesn’t just play Arthur Fleck, he is Arthur Fleck, inhabiting the character’s brokenness with a ferocity that’s both terrifying and mesmerizing. There’s no praise for the Joker himself, the man is a void, a black hole of malevolent energy, but Phoenix’s portrayal is a masterclass.

And then there’s the music. The film flirts with the musical genre, offering glimpses of what might have been. There are moments of genuine brilliance, particularly one show-stopping number that finally scratches that Joker itch, a twisted, theatrical expression of his fractured psyche. The concept, using music to explore Arthur’s descent into madness, is intriguing, but the execution feels hesitant, as if the filmmakers were afraid to fully commit to the bit. They dip their toes into the waters of musical theatre, but never fully immerse themselves. A missed opportunity, perhaps.

The film grapples with interesting ideas, particularly the susceptibility of the masses to charismatic figures, regardless of how warped their message might be. This thread, established in Joker, continues here, with the city teetering on the brink of chaos, a reflection of Arthur’s own internal turmoil. The film’s interpretation of the pseudobulbar affect, introduced in the first film, adds another layer of complexity, blurring the lines between genuine emotion and involuntary outbursts. We are left questioning the authenticity of Arthur’s feelings, just as the citizens of Gotham are misled by his chaotic performance.

But here’s the rub: it feels like they filmed the wrong movie. So much of the narrative is bogged down in legal and procedural elements, courtroom dramas and psychiatric evaluations. While the city burns outside, the film keeps us trapped within the confines of a Gotham courtroom and Arkham Hospital. I yearned to see the chaos unfold, to witness the city’s reaction to this asshat of an anti-hero, this criminal clown who has become a symbol of their discontent. Instead, we’re stuck in institutional hallways, listening to legal jargon. And every time the narrative shifted to Harvey Dent, played by a disconcertingly polished Harry Lawtey, the illusion shattered. He looked like he belonged on a yacht with daddy, not in the grimy, corrupt world of Gotham. Even the eventual glimpse of his origin story, intriguing as it was, couldn’t quite redeem the jarring miscasting. Each cut to Dent pulled me out of the film, a stark reminder of the artifice of it all.

And Lady Gaga, a force of nature, a global music icon, is strangely underutilized. Given the film’s musical leanings, her presence felt almost perfunctory. It’s as if the filmmakers didn’t quite know what to do with her talent.

It’s rumored the film cost upward of $150 million. $200 million? More? I’ll be damned, but I can’t figure out how that money was spent on screen.

Now, for the spoilers. That final shot. Joker on the ground, and behind him, a figure emerges from the shadows, the true agent of chaos. It’s a chilling moment, a suggestion that everything we’ve witnessed has been a prelude, a distorted origin story for the Joker we know from the comics. This reframing retroactively improves the first film, transforming it from a standalone character study into the first act of a much larger, more sinister narrative. It feels like a long con, a cinematic sleight of hand, and I, for one, am willing to be fooled. The idea that this was all planned, that the filmmakers knew where they were going all along, is far more satisfying than the alternative. It elevates the entire project, turning it into something far more complex and intriguing than it initially appeared. Even if it’s a lie, it’s a beautiful lie, and I’ll gladly embrace it.

We’re talking about the film on The Film Board this weekend, show released next Tuesday.

Motherhood and Madness in Under the Shadow

Under the Shadow is a howl. It’s a primal scream against the suffocating condemnations placed upon women, a scream muffled by the dusty, bomb-ridden streets of Tehran. The film burrows under your skin, not with cheap jump scares but with the slow, creeping dread of a life constantly under siege.

It’s not just a djinn scratching at the ceiling. It’s the djinn of war, tearing apart a country and tearing apart families. It’s the djinn of patriarchy, whispering insidious doubts in Shideh’s ear, telling her she’s not good enough, not pious enough, not motherly enough. And yes, it’s the djinn of the unseen, the uncanny, the thing that rustles in the dark when you’re most vulnerable. This film understands that the truest horrors are often the ones we can’t name, the ones that fester in the silences.

Narges Rashidi embodies this struggle with breathtaking vulnerability. We see Shideh’s desperation, the way she clings to her forbidden Jane Fonda workout tapes like a lifeline, a desperate gasp for a self the regime wants to erase. We see the way her eyes dart nervously around the apartment, searching for an escape that doesn’t exist. She’s a woman trapped, not just by a malevolent spirit, but by a society that seeks to define her solely as wife and mother.

The visuals, for crying out loud, the visuals! The djinn, a swirling vortex of shadow and fabric, an insistent reminder of the unseen forces that seek to control Shideh. The way it slithers through cracks in the ceiling, a metaphor, perhaps, for the cracks in Shideh’s own carefully constructed facade. And that scene under the sheet… a battle for identity, a war fought in the intimate, suffocating space of a marital bed, a space where women are so often expected to surrender their own desires, their own ambitions.

But the film is messy. The djinn’s connection to the missile feels convenient at best. A symbol of the destructive power of war, but a symbol that lacks the visceral punch of the film’s more intimate horrors. And Mehdi, poor, sidelined Mehdi. His “avatar” experience feels tacked on, a missed opportunity to explore the psychological toll of war on men.

And that “test” scene. It chills me to the bone. Is it a moment of madness? A supernatural manipulation? Or is it a glimpse into the dark, primal fear that lurks in every mother’s heart, the fear of failing to protect her child? The film doesn’t offer easy answers, and that’s naturally its greatest strength and weakness. It leaves us with questions, with unease, with the lingering sense that the true horrors are the ones we carry in ourselves.

I mean, also bombs, though.

★★★★☆🧡

Give me a follow over on Letterboxd for more.

Kiyoshi Kurosawa’s Pulse (2001): A Ghost in the Machine, Still Haunting

Kurosawa’s Pulse isn’t just a horror film; it’s practically a premonition. Released at the cusp of the internet’s ubiquity (that may be a little broad), it dependably anticipates the creeping dread of our hyper-connected yet profoundly isolating digital age with an unsettling accuracy that borders on clairvoyance. While the film’s narrative logic occasionally tumbles, its emotional resonance reverberates, leaving me with a lingering sense of unease even now, weeks after taking it in.

The film’s power lies not in jump scares or gratuitous gore, but in its masterful evocation of atmosphere. Kurosawa paints a world drained of color and connection, where abandoned warehouses and sterile computer labs become stages for an insidious, creeping dread. The simplest of images – a roll of orange duct tape, charcoal figures smudged on a wall – become imbued with a chilling significance, whispering of an unseen presence lurking just beyond the frame. This subtle horror, this suggestion of something profoundly wrong, proves far more effective than any explicit display of violence.

Kurosawa’s static shots, reminiscent of a surveillance camera, amplify the film’s sense of isolation. The camera lingers, forcing us to confront the emptiness of the spaces and the disconnection between the characters. It’s in these moments of stillness, in the subtle shifts of light and shadow, that the film’s true horror emerges. We become voyeurs, witnessing the slow disintegration of human connection and the gradual erosion of self. The film’s clever framing, often revealing ghostly figures lurking in the periphery, further heightens the sense of unease, reminding us that we are never truly alone, even in our loneliness.

The film’s exploration of that loneliness as a contagion, spreading through the nascent internet as a digital pathogen, feels eerily prescient in our current moment. The characters, young and adrift in a world increasingly mediated by technology, become unwitting vectors for this insidious malady. Their yearning for connection, their desperate attempts to bridge the widening chasm between themselves and others, only serves to draw them deeper into the darkness. While the film’s depiction of this “contagion” is somewhat vague, its emotional impact is undeniable. We recognize in these characters our own anxieties, our own struggles to navigate the treacherous currents of the digital age.

Pulse is not without its blemishes. The narrative, while compelling, occasionally veers toward the illogical. Points feel underdeveloped, leaving the viewer grasping for explanations. Despite these shortcomings, Pulse remains a powerful and unsettling film, a chilling meditation on the dark underbelly of our increasingly interconnected world. It’s a film that stays with you, whispering of the loneliness that lurks just beneath the surface of our digital lives. This film, much like the internet, has grown terrifyingly more relevant with time.

Whiplash • 2014

I’ve seen Whiplash more than a dozen times. Each viewing feels like a necessary bruising. It’s a film that lives in the extremes, a dark and airless practice room where the only oxygen is ambition and the tutelage courtesy of J.K. Simmons’ Fletcher.

Let’s say he’s a monster—a tyrant who hurls chairs and insults in equal measure. And sure, Teller’s Andrew bleeds for his art in his effort to exceed Fletcher’s brutal expectations. We see the welts on his hands, the desperation in his eyes. Is it too much? That’s the point.

This isn’t a film about the gentle hand of mentorship. It’s about the fire in the belly, the primal scream of wanting to be great. It forces us to ask: what are we willing to endure to reach the pinnacle of our potential?

Now, I’ve never had a chair thrown at me (though a certain French teacher and his vigorous desk-shaking come to mind – a man who, ironically, became a beloved mentor). But Whiplash resonates because it speaks to that deep, human desire for approval, for recognition, for mastery.

And the music. Yikes, the music. That final performance is more than just a crescendo; it’s a rebellion, a reckoning, a triumphant middle finger to the limitations placed upon us. It’s exhilarating, terrifying, satisfying … all the “ings,” as someone probably says.

My wife, bless her soul, jokes that Whiplash turned her into a bad parent, afraid to say “good job” lest she unleash some inner Fletcher on our children. But that’s the brilliance of the film—it sparks these conversations, these uncomfortable reflections on ambition, mentorship, and the price of excellence.

Whiplash is not a comfortable film. It’s a film that stays with you, that leaves you breathless, and questioning, and striving.

I notched this again because we had the chance to talk about it with the delightful Emmy Award-winning hair and makeup designer Frances Hounsom on this week’s episode of Movies We Like. You should check it out and subscribe. It’s an illuminating conversation on a show I just adore. Hope you enjoy!

Get Duked • 2019

“Get Duked!” shouts the film, and get duked we do, right into a gloriously silly, often hilarious romp through the Scottish Highlands. Imagine, if you will, a gaggle of misfit teens – the kind who make you nostalgic for your own awkward adolescence – thrust into a bizarre wilderness survival challenge. Now, add a dash of Edgar Wright-esque humor (think B+ grade, perfectly serviceable), a pinch of social commentary, and a modest helping of Jonathan Aris being brilliantly Jonathan Aris, and you’ve got yourself the first act of this wild ride.

The film is at its best when it revels in the absurdity of its premise. The landscape, vast and hauntingly beautiful, becomes a character itself, a playground for both the hapless teens and the film’s more sinister elements. The central quartet of lads are a study in contrasts, their fumbling attempts at survival a constant source of amusement, especially when juxtaposed against Ian, the hilariously earnest “good” boy. And oh, the police incompetence—a trope, sure, but one deployed here with such gusto that it’s hard not to crack a smile. Kate Dickie, bless her, is in her element, chewing the scenery with the relish of a Highland cow on fresh grass.

But the real highlight, the moment the film truly sings, is the “Get Duked” musical number. Picture this: our lads, high as kites on, shall we say, “enhanced” rabbit droppings, busting out into a full-blown rave anthem, complete with psychedelic visuals and a thumping beat courtesy of the enigmatic DJ Beatroot. It’s bonkers, it’s brilliant, it’s pure joy.

Sadly, like a hiker losing a foot on a steep descent, “Get Duked!” stumbles in its final act. The filmmakers abandon the playful metaphor and opt for clunky exposition and ideological monologues. The performances remain strong, but the magic dissipates, leaving us with a slightly sour aftertaste.

That said, there’s a final, deliciously British twist in the tail, a last-minute gag that had me laughing out loud. It’s a reminder that at its heart, “Get Duked!” is a comedy, and when it remembers that, it soars.

★★★★☆🧡

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Angst • 1981

We recorded an episode of Movies We Like yesterday with cinematographer Andrew Wonder and just as we wrapped up, he dropped this recommendation on us as one of those films that burrows under your skin and festers. He wasn’t wrong. It’s the kind of film that leaves you feeling grubby, like you need a shower and a strong drink, preferably while sitting in a brightly lit room. And yet, I can’t help but admire its audacity, its sheer, unflinching commitment to making you feel terrible. In the space of home invasion horror, this is at the very top of the raw discomfort-per-minute ratio in terms of raw despair.

Apparently, based on the crimes of Austrian murderer Werner Kniesek, the film follows an unnamed psychopath (played with chilling intensity by Erwin Leder) in the hours following his release from prison. His goal is to kill again. The film wastes no time in establishing his pathology, thrusting us into his disturbing worldview from the opening frame.

What sets Angst apart, truly sets it apart, is Zbigniew Rybczyński’s groundbreaking cinematography. Forget static shots and conventional framing; the camera here is a living, breathing entity, constantly moving, observing, almost predatory in its gaze. We are placed firmly within the killer’s perspective, forced to inhabit his distorted reality. It’s a claustrophobic, nauseating experience, and yet utterly mesmerizing. When critics call the camera a character in the film, they’re thinking of Angst.

This isn’t mere stylistic flourish. The camera work, coupled with the deeply unsettling score and the film’s chaotic direction, creates a terrifying and physically stressful experience.

This is a film that revels in its darkness, using violence not for titillation but to illustrate the banality of evil. The killer’s narration, a stream of consciousness that provides glimpses into his past traumas and attempts to rationalize his actions, only adds to the film’s unsettling power. We confront disorienting violence on screen paired with the calm reflection of our protagonist’s narration. We are forced to confront his lack of humanity while mirroring his own mental state.

Angst is not for the faint of heart. It is a film that will stay with you long after the credits roll, a film that dares to ask uncomfortable questions about the nature of evil and our own capacity for darkness.

And yet, for all its darkness, for all its unflinching brutality, there’s a strange, darkly comedic undercurrent to the film because for all his talk, for all his grandstanding, the killer’s journey in Angst ends in a clumsy bust with a brat in one hand, and bodies in the trunk. In that way, the film tells the story of a man who, in spite of his desire for greatness, demonstrates precious little talent in the task.

★★★★☆🧡

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Beetlejuice Beetlejuice • 2024

There’s a particular brand of chaotic energy that defines Tim Burton’s work, a blend of the macabre and the whimsical. It’s a tightrope walk, and unfortunately, “Beetlejuice Beetlejuice” stumbles more than it soars.

While the film boasts Burton’s signature visual flair, a feast of gothic whimsy and grotesque charm, the narrative feels as cobbled together as a sing-along with Miss Argentina.

Michael Keaton, typically a captivating screen presence, feels strangely misused as the titular bio-exorcist. Beetlejuice occupies a bizarre purgatory between antagonist and eager ally, leaving Keaton struggling to find a consistent rhythm for the character. His trademark manic energy is there, but it feels more forced than inspired, lacking the menace or the pathos to truly resonate—as he did in the original film.

Winona Ryder, saddled with the thankless task of portraying the archetypal ‘gloomy teen’ as an adult, delivers a disappointingly flat performance. Lydia Deetz, draped in black lace and existential angst, could have been a fascinating exploration of what was once adolescent alienation all-grown-up. But Ryder never quite inhabits the role, leaving sequel Lydia a pale shadow in a world begging for vibrant darkness.

It’s Catherine O’Hara who steals every scene she’s in, a comedic supernova as Delia Deetz. She’s less oblivious now and more in touch with the world, and O’hara brings impeccable timing and a gift for physical comedy, wringing laughs from the mundane, a delightful reminder of her singular talent.

Back to missed opportunities. Jenna Ortega’s Astrid. While Ortega brings a simmering intensity to the role, she’s given precious little to do. Her storyline feels frustratingly underdeveloped, a mere echo of Ryder’s Lydia, hinting at a depth the film never explores. As arguably the biggest star in the movie representing her generation, she’s bafflingly underused.

And what, pray tell, is Willem Dafoe doing in all of this? His character, while visually striking, feels utterly superfluous, a bizarre footnote in a narrative already littered with them. The film ends with a shrug, leaving a trail of unanswered questions and unresolved conflicts in its wake.

“Beetlejuice Beetlejuice” is not without its charms. O’Hara’s comedic brilliance, the film’s visual panache, and Danny Elfman’s evocative score all deserve recognition. However, these fleeting delights can’t quite compensate for the film’s narrative shortcomings and missed opportunities. Like a ghost flitting through walls, it leaves you with a sense of what might have been, a spectral echo of a far more compelling story.

★★☆☆☆

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