Look, I give points to Kuso mastermind Flying Lotus for putting something like this out there. It’s so outré for a film, reveling with Bacchanalian frenzy in the mire of the abject that makes body horror the flesh-crawling experience that it is.
Krisha was really great, so naturally I was excited to see what Trey Edward Shults would do as a follow-up. The ultra-personal, aggressively glum It Comes at Nightwas not quite what I was expecting.
I don’t disagree with people who say there are whiffs of “student art film” about David Lynch’s debut. The surrealist master was still testing the waters with Eraserhead, experimenting with themes and ideas that he would perfect much later in his career.
It’s amazing how much discourse mother! has been able to generate since its release. It’s got its die-hard fans, die-hard haters, Aronofsky apologists, offended parties and indifferent viewers all adding something to the conversation in a way that I’m not sure is comparable to another film released this year.
You can always count on F.W. Murnau to deliver the goods. Nosferatu—though a blatant act of plagiarism—changed the landscape of horror films forever, bringing in the mood and character that allowed the genre to reach new heights in the ensuing decades.
I was looking forward to The Wolf Man in the way you normally would look forward to a Universal monster movie from the ‘40s: hoping for some fun costuming, lavish sets, barrels of fog and a few slight chills up the spine. I got most of those things, sure.
House on Haunted Hill is, like most William Castle films, a gimmicky bauble that puts all reason to the side and wants nothing more than to entertain you. And it succeeds, at least for me.
What could have been an unimaginative retread of Jane Eyre is instead an immersive daydream of a film, all thanks to Jacques Tourneur’s superb eye for framing shadows and enhancing his story’s psychological unease.
Contained in a claustrophobic bunker for much of its running time, 10 Cloverfield Lane is an exercise in scouting out trust.
The level of refinement in this film—one made in 1921, almost a century ago—is astonishing. The double exposure used to give transparency to the phantoms is artfully done, certainly, and the acting is more nuanced and intuitive here than in most films released this decade.
The plot of The Uninvited is almost like a reconceptualization of Daphne de Maurier’s Rebecca, and the Hitchcock adaptation was released a few years before this. So it’s hard not to compare them.
The film moves in patterns. It’s unhurried about the task at hand, nor does it hurry to reveal too much, too quickly.
Night/Curse of the Demon is not top-tier Jacques Tourneur, and if he were still alive today, I think Tourneur would say the same.
Carnival of Souls is very noticeably low-budget. So much so that you don’t have to visit the IMDb Goofs section for insight.
Häxan is one wickedly innovative silent film, and I mean that in a good way.