We also use third-party cookies that help us analyze and understand how you use this website. I was very lucky to have been able to start directing movies at the age of 24, which is when I sold Donnie Darko, and 25 when I made and edited the film. Out of these, the cookies that are categorized as necessary are stored on your browser as they are essential for the working of basic functionalities of the website. © IFFR. Into the new millennium, horror films have retained their power to shock and outrage by continuing to plumb our deepest primordial terrors and incarnate our sickest, most socially unpalatable fantasies. When Oskar (Kåre Hedebrant), a 12-year-old outcast perpetually bullied at school, meets Eli (Lina Leandersson), the mysterious new girl at his apartment complex, one child’s painful coming of age is conflated with another’s insatiable bloodlust. Arlette is one of countless women who’re damned if they do and if they don’t, yet somehow the men are able to rationalize themselves as the victims. It’s a prospect that excites more than it daunts Kelly, who spoke to me last week about the arrival of the Southland Tales Cannes cut on Blu-ray and his desire to incorporate new material into the film. These individuals include her "Gramps" non-superpower grandfather; her closest friend, Henry, a "Boost" superhero who invents devices that strengthen his superhero abilities; and a friend who gives moral encouragement, their seagull sidekick, "Kipper." Which is to say that such theories have quite a bit common with religion, as both distract from a possibility that many humans find most unmooring of all: that we are simply mammals, talking cattle whose destiny is to fertilize the earth. That’s challenging, and not really a way for me to sustain a long career. Well, I would love to be able to properly finish a film one day! Ascher also samples Victor Fleming’s The Wizard of Oz, Alex Proyas’s Dark City, Paul Verhoeven’s Total Recall, Peter Weir’s The Truman Show, Steven Spielberg’s Minority Report, and most inevitably the Wachowskis’ The Matrix, a seismic exploration of the dream obsession that drives a vast portion of pop culture. The film’s singular ambition is to immerse the viewer in the thick of a frenzied drive toward the promise of a lover’s touch and a few more minutes of life. The pleasure of the film is in Krasinski’s commitment to imagining the resourceful ways in which a family like this might survive in this kind of world, then bearing witness to the filmmaker’s skillfully constructed methods of putting them to the ultimate test, relentlessly breaking down all of the walls the family has erected to keep the monsters out. Bowen, Scott Wilson’s deliciously hammy presence as the American captain in the opening scene indicates that Bong Joon-ho’s The Host is, in the broadest sense, a politically charged diatribe against both American and Korean political cover-up machinations of misinformation. There’s a cargo ship that leaves the island once a year, with some room for passengers, but tickets are so hard to get that people kill for them. You’ve mentioned that Southland Tales, if released today, might make more sense as a limited series or a two-part movie. The film’s Sydney is all popping colors and steely surfaces, with cinematographer Dimitri Zaunders skillfully homing in on its labyrinthine streets (he’s also attuned to the still heat of Australia’s east coast). Unfolding over the course of a long day, the film follows parents as they’re driven to kill their children in a mass outbreak of violence. She reports that the dream is burningly painful, surely because it’s a picture of something that’s not this—the awful, inescapable present. The book’s central conceit—of a rabid Saint Bernard as a metaphor for unchecked addiction—is softened by narrative trimming, but the chaos, violation, and sheer velocity of King’s vision are still allowed to break through. With none of the pathos or incisive wit of Wiig’s best work, Josh Greenbaum’s film seems to lean more toward the broad, off-the-cuff absurdity that she’s pulled off with aplomb in the past, but is never much more than a lightweight and half-hearted show of silliness. The Sacrament recalls Adolfo Bioy Casares’s 1940 novel The Invention of Morel (and the Emidio Greco’s 1974 film adaptation starring Anna Karina), in which a scientist records what’s meant to be a perfect weekend on a remote island, then projects it three-dimensionally on an infinite loop atop the locations where it unfolded—a vision of what cinema (and home movies) could be if untethered from the screen. Cast: Jordan Monaghan, Nicholas Ashe Bateman, Yasamin Keshtkar, Edmond Cofie, Maxine Muster, Josh Clark, Christine Kellogg-Darrin Director: Nicholas Ashe Bateman Screenwriter: Nicholas Ashe Bateman Distributor: Gravitas Ventures Running Time: 89 min Rating: NR Year: 2020, Enter to Win The Little Prince, Elizabethtown, Let Him Go, Love Story, and more on Blu-ray, Our Preview Section Is Your Most Complete Guide for All the Films Coming Your Way Soon. And some of our favorites are currently streaming on Hulu. In many ways, this is a textbook example of an essay film in that it tries out many costumes (“I dress up in screens,” Morad declares in the voiceover at one point), but always goes back to savoring the magnificence of language: words printed on screen or spoken as lamentation. The film, whose literal-minded, heavy-handed approach is too cloying and condescending to even be enjoyed as exploitation, centers around a schizophrenic teenage girl, Rain (Madison Iseman), who’s been discharged from a psychiatric institution that she was admitted to after a particularly intense psychotic episode. Cast: Emilia Jones, Marlee Matlin, Troy Kotsur, Daniel Durant, Eugenio Derbez, Ferdia Walsh-Peelo, John Fiore, Lonnie Farmer, Kevin Chapman, Amy Forsyth Director: Sian Heder Screenwriter: Sian Heder Distributor: Apple TV+ Running Time: 112 min Rating: NR Year: 2021. The film begins as a fairly well-worn tale of millennial angst, with a pair of Sydney-sider acquaintances, Ray (Fergus Wilson) and Alice (Emma Diaz), agreeing to camp together on their way back from a trip to Brisbane. We just went through a four-year Twilight Zone episode in a lot of ways. I think I’ll try to do both. Southland Tales is better left unexplained (if it can even be explained), just experienced as a collage of spectacularly staged aughts-era anxieties. That’s my version of a sequel. Words for words’ sake. With her catchphrase, "It's time to shine!" High quality Meme gifts and merchandise. Words that prop up and carry the film, stitching together the usual suspects of essayistic filmmaking in chameleonic fashion: a self-ethnographic gaze, intimacy rendered public, exposure of cinema’s apparatus, aesthetic playfulness, including a Meliès-esque circular framing of images, and a litany of artistic references, from Andrea Mantegna to Chris Marker. Rodney Ascher’s essay documentary A Glitch in the Matrix explores the in-vogue and tantalizingly bleak notion that we’re living in a simulated world fostered by a “posthuman” entity, perhaps a futuristic generation of ourselves that has melded with our technology. This version of the film still leaves intact some rickety visual effects and doesn’t attempt to impose any further intelligibility on his ambitious saga of post-9/11 paranoia and panic. In the process, he imbues Possessor with a disturbing irony: The film’s violence serves as a kind of relief for its perpetrators, who’re displaced by technological doodads and come to long for tangibility, corporeal terra firma, no matter how perverse. We needed a lot more resources, visual effects, animation—all these things that just didn’t exist in 2005 when we shot the film. Marla can levitate in mid-air, and while capable of generating wind, she primarily controls cloud-based weather, namely, Cosmic Crushter: A large muscular man. Take fishing. Played by Mark Duplass with just the right mixture of oblivious eccentricity and simmering hurt, the deft handling of this potentially ridiculous character is one of the many nice touches in this surprisingly poignant comedy. One sequence of tofu being prepared is literally shot like a porno, with guitars comically shredding on the soundtrack and close-ups between panting faces watching a sizzling wok. Made inside a New Jersey warehouse, where scenes were shot against blue screens on which digital landscapes were superimposed, Nicholas Ashe Bateman’s The Wanting Mare conjures a vivid, naturalistic sense of place out of ones and zeroes. These films show us utopias, dystopias, distant planets, and our own Earth destroyed. But while Darius Marder’s film laces its clichés with a visceral approximation of a singer’s loss of hearing, CODA succumbs to banal coming-of-age sermonizing, shortchanging the power of a handful of well-textured moments. Tasjan! It’s obviously a commentary on queer ways of understanding the relationship between HIV-positive people and the virus that not just inhabits their bodies but that co-authors their lives. It’s set up as chapters four-to-six of a six-chapter story, where the Cannes version is set up as much more dreamlike but has a complete narrative arc because it has more scenes and character development. Or are you going to let all the insight you’ve accumulated over the last 15 years guide you? And, like the infected flowers in Feast, the artist basks in the philosophical and erotic consequences of illness. What are films themselves but simulations, dreams within dreams that suggest our longing to mold reality in our own image? Determined to ensure that we feel consistently wonderful while watching CODA, Heder elides virtually any indications of hardship: Ruby doesn’t have to work for her voice, which instantly sounds trained, and her lack of money or connections to Berklee is brushed away with a few lines of dialogue. The first of Rose’s two climactic sing-offs is partially rendered silent, communicating Frank and Jackie’s love and appreciation of their daughter, as well as their insurmountable distance from a crucial element of her life. Strip away the Art Deco glory of its towering cityscapes and factories and the synchronized movements of those who move through those environments and what’s even left? I definitely didn’t have the budget that I needed on the first two films to do everything I wanted to do in terms of visual effects. One evening, she hears some shouting, and a few shots fired, and she meets in a stairwell the wounded Lawrence (Bateman), whom she takes home and nurses back to health. Director: Rodney Ascher Distributor: Magnolia Pictures Running Time: 108 min Rating: NR Year: 2020, Review: Two of Us Undercuts Its Romance with Quasi-Thriller Elements, Review: On the Count of Three’s Brutal Absurdism Enlivens a Familiar Scenario, SXSW 2015: The Nightmare, God Bless the Child, & Sailing a Sinking Sea. It’s definitely looking back further, much earlier than Trump. The casual violence of Wilfred’s physicality is subtly calibrated, particularly the tension in his muscled back as he drinks lemonade on the porch after a hard day of murder. The first season of the series premiered on Netflix on April 3, 2020, followed by a second season on September 8, 2020. Ms. Fawkes: A photographer who takes pictures for the local school. The 1979 film most explicitly riffs on delinquent racing movies and the kinds of crudely effective 1970s horror movies that would sometimes show a family being violated in a prolonged fashion, and there are sequences in Mad Max that could be edited, probably with few seams, into, say, Wes Craven’s The Last House on the Left. How would you introduce Southland Tales to someone who doesn’t know its backstory? It soon transpires that the caller in question is Laura Barnes, a former friend of Blaire’s who committed suicide after an embarrassing video went viral, apparently back from the grave to take digital revenge. When the floodgates finally open, I’ll hopefully be directing for a long time. It’s an enormous challenge to write a big, sprawling novel. The costuming feels modern but the technology outmoded—no one has a cellphone—suggesting a vaguely troubled time period in which electronics are hard to come by. Barb and Star Go to Vista Del Mar ultimately gives the impression that its co-writers and stars are coasting, showing just as much disregard for other people’s judgments of them as their characters do. The fantasies and experiences shared by these men in A Glitch in the Matrix are often frightening. Trying unsuccessfully to have its cake and eat it, it proceeds through a series of reality-shifting twists throughout its latter half, but this strategy is just as misguided as its efforts to educate the audience. Review: Fear of Rain Uses Mental Illness as Grist for the Tension Mill, Review: Barb and Star Go to Vista Del Mar, Where Comedy Dies a Slow Death, The Best Sci-Fi Movies on Netflix Right Now, The Best Horror Movies on Netflix Right Now, Review: The Hold Steady’s Open Door Policy Makes the Familiar Feel Fresh Again, Review: With V!bez, Vol. As the filmmaker reminds us, we’ve always wanted to prove the falseness of our existence, from Plato in his cave to Neo in a metallic cocoon fostered by insectile supercomputers from the future. And then there’s the opportunity to look into the future and the sort of nesting-doll narrative that exists inside, which is Boxer and Krysta’s screenplay looking forward to the year 2024. Yet only rarely does the dialogue feel pedagogical, as the philosophical musing is allocated not only to speech but to the unstable aesthetics of the film itself. It’s always really important for me to keep looking back. The only thing Leyendekker eroticizes in the film is coffee, in a sequence where one of the accused makes espresso and froths milk with the most delectable of frothers. Are your films, or the ideas behind them, ever finished? In a way, this generic quality is poignant, implying indisputably that the deaf should be allowed to enjoy soothing pabulum of their own, but Heder allows a better film to elude her in the process of checking off all sorts of feel-good indie boxes. For every eviscerated remake or toothless throwback, there’s a startlingly fresh take on the genre’s most time-honored tropes; for every milquetoast PG-13 compromise, there’s a ferocious take-no-prisoners attempt to push the envelope on what we can honestly say about ourselves.

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