Caligula (Tinto Brass, 1979): 1/5

Watched the original theatrical version with the Guccione porn inserts, which aren't remotely erotic but do nonetheless occasionally puncture the general tedium. Fascinating to see such a stellar cast flailing so pathetically—you'd never guess that McDowell, Mirren, and O'Toole had a speck of talent among them. Also hard to believe that a film so aggressively lurid could be so stultifyingly dull, rarely even rising (or sinking, I guess) to the level of camp. Just long, unpleasant and cruel—the cinematic equivalent of sitting in the Colosseum as Christians are thrown to the lions.

A Star Is Born (Bradley Cooper, 2018): 3/5

bradley cooper: hwshhmmvzagsrrd

lady gaga: hwoooahhoooahhhOOOAAHHOAAA

me: why does he have a southern accent if he’s from Arizona


Birdman of Alcatraz (John Frankenheimer, 1962): 2/5

Burt Lancaster looking solemnly at birds and calmly challenging authority is not enough on which to hang a movie, particularly one that is two and a half hours long and takes almost two of those hours to get to its titular location.

The Letter (William Wyler, 1940): 3/5

Bette Davis shooting a man to death while showing no emotion whatsoever.

It's a yes from me.

Operation Finale (Chris Weitz, 2018): 1/5

operation finale? more like operation finally it's fucking over this movie blows

Mary Queen of Scots (Josie Rourke, 2018): 1.5/5

Mary: "I'm not a regular queen, I'm a cool queen"

more like mary queen of FLOPS

rewatched Le Cercle Rouge (Jean-Pierre Melville, 1970): 4/5

HOW DARE YOU SHOOT MY BELOVED MUSTACHIO'D ALAIN DELON. Also, Vogel voluntarily entering the trunk of a car with a lit cigarette is just about the most gloriously French thing I ever saw.

Cries and Whispers (Ingmar Bergman, 1972): 1/5

Everything I hate about Bergman concentrated into a single film. The dour humorlessness; the mannered performances; the ticking clocks that infiltrate portentous silences with metronomic reminders of mortality; the overwrought arias of verbal cruelty; the expository flashbacks; the random mood swings designed merely to startle...it's as close as he ever came to self-parody. Honestly, if I wanted to scare someone away from art films forever, this is what I'd show them.

 The Bronte Sisters (Andre Techine, 1979): 2/5

Strike one: biopic. Strike two: biopic about writers. Strike three: biopic about writers who led utterly uneventful lives, apart from their writing. (Plus, all the Brontes died young, so at a certain point you're just waiting for the entire cast to keel over.)

Spellbound (Alfred Hitchcock, 1945): 2.5/5

Conclusive proof that superlative direction can't redeem an awful script. I've already forgotten most of the film's multitude of idiocies, retaining only a general sense of its pseudo-Freudian nonsense.

Support the Girls (Andrew Bujalski, 2018): 3/5

Kinda like if early Linklater made Coyote Ugly.

Vazante (Daniela Thomas, 2017): 2/5

Unimaginative arthouse drama with overwhelmingly boring characters who offer basically no background or accessible pathos as they exchange flat dialogue. Almost exploitatively bleak in its meditation on slaves' plight, a girl's abuse, and their mutual oppressor's burden, and having nothing new to say about those exhausted themes.

Dead Reckoning (John Cromwell, 1947): 3/5

Unnecessarily convoluted plot. (By the end I wasn't really sure what had happened or why.) But Bogie noir anything is always one of life's comforts.

rewatched The Passion of Joan of Arc (Carl Theodor Dreyer, 1928): 5/5

Were I teaching cinema 101, this would be Exhibit A in what the medium can uniquely do.

Whitney (Kevin Macdonald, 2018): 4/5

This is a really great documentary, but it commits one of the greatest sins you could commit: talking over Whitney's Star Spangled Banner performance.

The Strange Affair of Uncle Harry (Robert Siodmak, 1945): 2.5/5

Stupid fucking Hays Code fucked up the original ending!!!!! Ella Raines is one good-lookin’ broad.

rewatched The Rules of the Game (Jean Renoir, 1939): 4/5

Another evolving-taste flip-flop: it's entertaining, much more so than I recalled. MORE LIKE EVERYONE HAS THEIR CRAZY SELF-INVOLVED BULLSHIT AMIRITE. (Spoiler: Iamrite.) Blasphemous missing star is mostly due to Nora Gregor, who's too bland to serve as a credible object of passion for every man in sight; how I wish Arletty had played the role instead.

American Mary (Jen and Sylvia Soska, 2012): 3/5

Body horror with a medical license. The diabolical Dr. Caligari in a black leather apron and pumps. And I’m fairly certain the Soska sisters are as smitten with Katharine Isabelle as we are. Funny, stylish, and wickedly perverse, although burdened with a rudderless (and occasionally dumb) third act.