Well, that was one magisterial journey. A flawless show, every episode a veritable treat for the eyes and ears. To be just that bit more reflective, it was better than Breaking Bad, though dependent upon it.
Nothing much else to add, really.
Magical.
A well-acted shitter (Toni Collette is marvellous in everything) but this descended into farce after about 30 unexpectedly disturbing minutes – I thought this was meant to be one of those quirky coming-of-age dramedies which can be quite therapeutic on occasion. The horrific MacGuffin had me almost turning the show off, such was its realism and relevance. I give it some kudos for that.
Things got messy thereon, however, and I’m referring to the script. It wasn’t going anywhere and I was losing interest with every gnawingly predictable moment, a pile-on of scenes from other thrillers. By the second episode I was lost in the world of far superior stuff demanding a second viewing.
I pulled the plug.
I hope you follow my lead (see what I did there?).
Rubbish.
This season is unfortunately a bit stale and diluted, and the elements which could have salvaged it – the first season’s unrelenting reverence for the ’80s and its accompanying cheese, the dark humour and the amusing SJW bashing – are in short supply. Johnny Lawrence is just not as interesting as an upstanding nice guy as he is as a fish-out-of-water shambles lost in the wrong century. The staid version of Johnny is one without an edge, and it’s as if the show has been robbed of its biggest star.
Other things are annoying, from the constant switching allegiances, the pointless cameos from past characters that go nowhere, and the moments of catharsis that are simply not earned. It had some decent craic in it and the choreography was great as always, but this show should probably end now.
And I’m probably taking it all a bit too seriously.
This was magisterial and a joy to watch. It’s not exactly a ‘fun’ movie but it’s captivating in its sincerity and … power. There’s a sense that at any moment something awful could happen, and that’s mostly down to Cumberbatch, who is as unpredictable as he is scary. His Phil Burbank recalls Daniel Plainview in There Will Be Blood (2007), and The Power of the Dog is quite similar to that seminal film in atmosphere and lurid landscape.
Don’t be expecting a knockout punch moment because it’s not that kind of movie, more a series of jabs, each progressively harder.
A strong contender for film of the year.
And it’s still very much unique. These characters don’t learn anything, no ‘life lessons’ or any of that. They simply go from episode to episode trying to make sense of the Manhattan cultural lexicon. There’s something kid of refreshing and honest about it, and unlike Friends it doesn’t resort to a cheap pulling of the heartstrings. It’s also way funnier.
Thank you, Netflix.
This curious movie wouldn’t be made today, with its suicide bombers and hijackers. And Seagal (sort of) headlining a motion picture. The good news is he isn’t in it for long, which kind of adds to the charm. Roger Ebert’s review at the time is hilarious, “I perked right up” his description of Seagal’s death. And when a sleazy J.T. Walsh turns up in a film you just know it’s going to be a ludicrous ’90s riot.
It has the most irritating scene and character title intros ever, this digital text at the bottom of the screen with that gimmicky digital noise. You know what I’m referring to? If not, then watch it. This was an age when shite like this was churned out monthly. Almost every single one of these films contains an identical round table discussion of generals/admirals with the lone voice of reason/geeky interloper in the middle. It’s the Golden Age of shite. Before everyone got so sensitive.
Anyway, it’s a highly entertaining hoot, popcorn nonsense for a lazy Sunday.
Certainly ambitious in conception, but it all feels so rehashed and by the numbers, kind of half-baked and jaded by its own pretensions.
There are moments when you think it’s finally going to throw off the shackles and descend into proper depravity and capture the macabre, but it never does, like it’s constrained by committee. And there’s not enough of a portrait of Oktoberfest or Munich or … Germany in general, and those times were wicked times.
I was expecting a Bavarian Red Wedding. It never happened. Plenty of beer, but not enough blood.
Oh well, the intention was there.
The nostalgia trip is strong with this one, and it is done in such an artful way that it builds upon the 1984 … middling flick and goes into new directions that feel organic and … well, correct. It’s such an entertaining show at times and only today would it get made. The wait has been worth it, and I feel there is a benchmark quality here, a premonition of other ’80s movies getting the TV treatment.
I want to see Flashdance (1983) given the treatment.
A time machine quality swirls around this flick. Whether it’s the throwback cinematography that apes Gregg Toland or the peculiar sound recording that could be lifted straight from the seminal Citizen Kane (1941) or merely the endlessly fascinating subject matter – Kane’s production history, its bonkers cast and crew. The movie was a joy to watch. It captures ‘Old Hollywood’ like no other; not that I was there, but it’s how I’ve always pictured the era. The sleaze, the smoky rooms, the shameless greed, the debauchery, the magnates and barons mixing with screenwriters and journalists, a glorious melting pot with movies the rarefied outcome.
It’s not just a portrait of an untouchable epoch, though. The … tribute is married to actual human stories, the individual struggles that inspire and spark creative output, the roman-à-clefs that writers as omniscient as Herman J. Mankiewicz soaked up like a sponge. When you read into types like this – Ben Hecht also comes to mind – you can’t help but admire the way they dipped into Bohemian Grove.
This might also be the most unusual movie David Fincher has made. I will have to view it again for I did not detect any ‘Fincherisms’.
Further reading:
Another memorable number from the 1993 movie vault, which I often posit the ‘best year ever for movies’: Mrs. Doubtfire, Schindler’s List, The Fugitive, Jurassic Park, Tombstone, Falling Down. Am I wrong? Have I missed anything?
It’s in all honesty not much of an action movie, the scenes terribly staged and edited, another case of the viewer not having a clue what is going on. It’s as unimaginative as it gets, ADHD Eisenstein. However, as satire and social commentary it is terrifyingly on the ball about today’s nightmarish cultural landscape. It actually predicted 2020.
It nails the all-out assault on language, the SJW proscription against alternate viewpoints, the restriction of real individualism in the quest for Utopia. Who knew that offending someone could be a crime? Well, it sadly is these days. Because they (the crusading creatures) have been allowed to get away with this.
The only thing this movie gets wrong is the method of wiping one’s arse. Britons will be doing it ‘Old Skool’ until the next extinction-level event.
Wanderings and ... wonderings. 