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.

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.

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.

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.

★★★★☆🧡

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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.

“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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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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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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Endora, Iowa. Population: 1,091 (and falling). A place where the air hangs thick with the scent of stagnation, where dreams evaporate like the morning mist, and where the only thing moving faster than the rust creeping up the water tower is the relentless march of time. This is the suffocating backdrop against which Lasse Hallström’s What’s Eating Gilbert Grape unfolds, a film less about a specific question and more about the quiet desperation of existing in a world that feels too small.

Let’s be clear: this isn’t a film of grand pronouncements or explosive plot twists. It’s a film of whispers and glances, of unspoken anxieties etched onto Johnny Depp’s perpetually furrowed brow as Gilbert, the titular character burdened by the weight of his family. Depp, in a performance of remarkable restraint, embodies the exhaustion of a young man trapped by circumstance, his every sigh a testament to the crushing responsibility he shoulders.

And then there’s Arnie, played with breathtaking authenticity by a young Leonardo DiCaprio. It’s a performance that transcends mere acting; it’s an inhabitation, a channeling of a spirit so pure and vulnerable it leaves you breathless. The fact that DiCaprio didn’t receive an Oscar for this role remains a cinematic injustice, a testament perhaps to the Academy’s frequent blindness to genuine artistry. Arnie’s precarious dance with the world, his fascination with heights and water, his childlike glee and sudden, terrifying meltdowns, are all rendered with a heartbreaking realism that lingers long after the credits roll.

Darlene Cates, in her only film role, delivers a performance as Mama that is as astonishing as it is affecting. Her physical presence, amplified by astute costuming and hair design, becomes a symbol of the family’s immobility, a literal and metaphorical weight holding them down. Yet, within this immobility, Cates manages to convey a flicker of humanity, a glimmer of the woman she once was before grief and circumstance consumed her.

The film’s suspense, masterfully crafted by screenwriter Peter Hedges, doesn’t rely on cheap thrills or jump scares. It’s the slow-burn suspense of a life lived on the precipice, the constant fear of Arnie’s next climb, Mama’s next fall, the ever-present threat of the family’s fragile ecosystem collapsing. The scene where Arnie scales the water tower is a masterclass in tension, a visceral representation of Arnie’s yearning for escape mirrored by Gilbert’s own desperate desire to break free.

The ending, much debated, offers not a definitive answer but a glimmer of hope. Gilbert and Arnie driving off in Becky’s van, a vehicle not broken down like so many other things in Endora, feels less like an ambiguous departure and more like a decisive act of liberation. It’s a deliberate contrast to the opening scenes, where Gilbert watches the endless stream of cars passing through, representing the life he craves. The ceremonial burning of the house, with Mama’s body inside, is not an act of cruelty but a necessary catharsis, a symbolic severing of the ties that bind them to their suffocating past. They are not simply leaving a town; they are leaving behind a life.

While the setting is undeniably bleak, What’s Eating Gilbert Grape is not a depressing film. It’s a film about the enduring power of love and resilience in the face of overwhelming adversity. It’s a film about the small moments of grace that illuminate even the darkest corners of our existence. It’s a film that, like Becky’s presence in Gilbert’s life, reminds us that even in the most desolate of landscapes, there is always the possibility of connection, of hope, of a life beyond the confines of our own Endora.

This film, dear reader, is a glorious, gaudy carnival of the absurd. It’s a B-movie masterpiece, a technicolor nightmare dripping with cotton candy and existential dread. Imagine, if you will, a world where the threat of Cold War paranoia manifests as clowns – not just any clowns, mind you, but extraterrestrial jesters with a penchant for transforming humans into grotesque cotton candy juice bags.

The Chiodo brothers serve up a delicious cocktail of horror and comedy, expertly balancing some chills with absurdity. The practical effects are a triumph, a testament to the power of ingenuity—those clown faces? Pure nightmare.

But beneath the schlock and silliness lies a surprisingly sharp commentary on small-town America. The authority figures are hilariously inept, leaving it to a trio of savvy (and slightly too old for high school) teenagers to save the day. It’s a classic trope, yes, but one that feels particularly resonant in this context.

Is it perfect? God, no. The plot is as hole-ridden as a clown car after a pie fight. I don’t know what that means but it sounds horrible. Still, that’s part of the charm, isn’t it? This is a film that revels in its own ridiculousness, inviting us to embrace the chaos and laugh in the face of fear.

So, go ahead. Take a slurp from this cinematic cotton candy. You might just find yourself delightfully terrified.

★★★★☆🧡

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