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Wisely realizing that, despite the centuries between them, Jane Austen similarly held great respect for “women’s lives” and managed to craft stories about them that were foolish, frothy, funny, and very relatable.
It’s easy to get cynical about the meaning (or deficiency thereof) of life when your task involves chronicling — on an once-a-year basis, no less — if a large rodent sees his shadow in a splashy event put on by a tiny Pennsylvania town. Harold Ramis’ 1993 classic is cunning in both its general concept (a weatherman whose live and livelihood is set by grim chance) and execution (sounds negative enough for in the future, but what said day was the only day of your life?
With Tyler Durden, novelist Chuck Palahniuk invented an impossibly cool avatar who could bark truisms at us with a quasi-religious touch, like Zen Buddhist koans that have been deep-fried in Axe body spray. With Brad Pitt, David Fincher found the perfect specimen to make that gentleman as real to audiences as he is on the story’s narrator — a superstar who could seduce us and make us resent him for it for the same time. Within a masterfully directed movie that served being a reckoning with the 20th Century as we readied ourselves for that 21st (and ended with a man reconciling his aged demons just in time for some towers to implode under the burden of his new ones), Tyler became the physical embodiment of buyer masculinity: Aspirational, impossible, insufferable.
Steeped in ’50s Americana and Cold War fears, Brad Hen’s first (and still greatest) feature is customized from Ted Hughes’ 1968 fable “The Iron Guy,” about the inter-material friendship between an adventurous boy named Hogarth (Eli Marienthal) along with the sentient machine who refuses to serve his violent purpose. Because the small-town boy bonds with his new pal from outer space, he also encounters two male figures embodying antithetical worldviews.
Assayas has defined the central question of “Irma Vep” as “How will you go back to your original, virginal power of cinema?,” but the film that problem prompted him to make is only so rewarding because the responses it provides all appear to contradict each other. They ultimately flicker together in one of the greatest endings in the decade, as Vidal deconstructs his dailies into a violent barrage of semi-structuralist doodles that would be meaningless if hotel service staff takes part in a threesome with couple not for the way perfectly they indicate Vidal’s success at creating a cinema that is shaped — but not owned — because of the earlier. More than twenty five years later, Assayas is still trying to figure out how he did that. —DE
The second of three lower-funds 16mm films that Olivier Assayas would make between 1994 and 1997, “Irma Vep” wrestles with the inexorable presentness of cinema’s earlier in order to help divine its future; it’s a lithe and unassuming piece of meta-fiction that goes the many free porn hub way back to the silent foxy transsexual rayana cardoso fulfills fucking dream era in order to arrive at something that feels completely new — or that at least reminds audiences of how thrilling that discovery could be.
“I wasn’t trying to see the future,” Tarr said. “I was just watching my life and showing the world from my point of view. Of course, you could see plenty of shit permanently; you could see humiliation at all times; you may always see a bit of this destruction. Many of the people might be so Silly, choosing this kind of populist shit. They are destroying themselves and also the world — they tend not to think about their grandchildren.
A non-linear eyesight of fifties Liverpool that unfolds with the slippery warmth of the Technicolor deathdream, “The Long Working day Closes” finds the director sifting through his childhood memories and recreating the happy formative years after his father’s Dying in order to sanctify the love that’s been waiting there for him all along, just behind the layer of glass that has always kept Davies (and his less explicitly autobiographical characters) from being in the position to reach out and touch it.
Emir Kusturica’s characteristic exuberance and frenetic pacing — which often feels like Fellini on Adderall, accompanied by a raucous Balkan brass band — reached a fever pitch in his tragicomic masterpiece “Underground,” with that raucous Electrical power spilling across the tortured spirit of his beloved Yugoslavia since the country endured through an extended period of disintegration.
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The story revolves around a homicide detective named Tanabe (Koji Yakusho), who’s investigating a series of inexplicable murders. In each case, a seemingly everyday citizen gruesomely kills someone close to them, with no commitment and no memory of committing the crime. Tanabe is chasing a ghost, and “Remedy” crackles mom sex video with the paranoia of standing within an empty room where you feel a existence you cannot see.
With his third feature, the young Tarantino proved that he doesn’t need any gimmicks to tell a killer story, turning Elmore Leonard’s “Rum Punch” into a tight thriller anchored by a career-best performance from the legendary Pam Grier. While the film never tries to hide The actual fact that it owes as much to Tarantino’s love for Blaxploitation since it does to his affection for Leonard’s supply novel, Grier’s nuanced performance allows her to show off a softer side that went criminally underused during her pimp-killing heyday.
As handsome and charming as George Clooney is, it’s hard to assume he would have been the star he is today if Soderbergh hadn’t unlocked the full depth of his persona with this role.