Host (Rob Savage, 2020): 4.5/5
Six friends hire a medium to hold a seance via Zoom during lockdown. Most good horror movies make me feel, at best, disgust, pity, and a profound naughty thrill of errant deeds. This fucker—like Blair Witch, Paranormal Activity and The Conjuring—was just scary. I thought the Zoom conceit was going to annoy me, but it instead made the movie feel very real. And hell yeah to the 57-minute running time.
The King of Staten Island (Judd Apatow, 2020): 2.5/5
Amiable but baggy. The movie waits until the hour and a half mark to get the sullen and dopey main character to realize that being a fireman (like his dead father) might be a path for him. It should have happened at the half-hour mark, of course. I recently heard comedian Jason Mantzoukas say that Apatow is trying to make James L. Brooks dramadies now, which is about right.
I’m Thinking of Ending Things (Charlie Kaufman, 2020): 3/5
I understand everything in this movie and have no questions. Thank you...
Actually, the first article I read after watching this revealed one simple thing that is never mentioned in the movie but that rendered the whole thing relatively cogent. Why does Kaufman fail to mention it in the text? Just cooler to be opaque?
A short Paul Schrader retrospective.
Blue Collar (Paul Schrader, 1978): 3.5/5
A Detroit story of corrupt unions, theft and selling out with as much dignity as possible. Contains songs by Howling Wolf and Captain Beefheart. In other words: relevant.
American Gigolo, rw (Paul Schrader, 1980): 4/5
Why did I like this movie so much when I saw it in the theater with my parents at the age of 13? Gere is very cool—extremely handsome and supremely confident and he has a lot of sex. And it’s a cool milieu—beachfront properties and hotel living. It also happens to be radically homoerotic, with lovingly prolonged shots of Gere’s magnificent wang.
The Comfort of Strangers (Paul Schrader, 1990): 3/5
Screenplay by Pinter. Great Walken performance. Creepy Venice milieu.
Light Sleeper (Paul Schrader, 1992): 3/5
Yet another tale of a marginalized figure working himself up to an act of redemptive violence (see Taxi Driver and First Reformed), but that’s Schrader’s brand, right? Dafoe trying to act normal.
Auto Focus (Paul Schrader, 2002): 4/5
Men gotta have fun, right? Extremely caustic and ugly and modern. Uses and undermines sitcom look and feel. Perfect use of Greg Kinnear's uncanny, plastic charm. Best ever movie about sex addiction??
I noticed that of Spielberg’s 32 feature films, I had seen all but three, so I decided to watch them. Spoiler alert: while they are not without merit, I had avoided them for a reason.
Amistad (Steven Spielberg, 1997): 2.5/5
Although I was prepared to dislike it (obviously I had been avoiding it for all these year), I actually appreciated the first two thirds of Amistad. Spielberg has a powerful arsenal of suspense tools, and when he depicts the violence of the insurrection and especially the horrors of the slave ship, it’s powerful stuff. Of course, it’s easy to see that he is not the right person to be telling this story, and he brings a lot of baggage that sinks the movie before it’s done. Lots of speeches by old white people!!! It was not successful in its day, but I understand it’s a staple in high school classes now.
Munich (Steven Spielberg, 2005): 1.5/5
Well-made (naturally) but kind of terrible. Bana is so bland that the center cannot hold. And It never feels epic (despite its 2:45 running time), just episodic. It also has one of the worst sex scenes in film history—when Bana is imagining an explosive terrorist act while he comes. Gad!! Surprisingly, the movie does very little hand-wringing about heinous terrorist acts that are in the cause of Israel. Jewish music over the end credits justify the means?
War Horse (Steven Spielberg, 2005): 2/5
Au Hasard Balthazar for Dummies. There’s actually a pretty good, unsentimental, 45-minute WWI movie in the middle of this. Unfortunately, it’s bookended by lots of bullshit, How Green Was My Valley treacle.
When Docs Attack
Listen to Britain (Humphrey Jennings, 1942): 1/5
20 interminable minutes of smug stiff-upper-lip very white self-congratulatory propaganda, except instead of geometrically aligned Olympiads we have sewing machines and municipal orchestras. Pathetic.
A Diary for Timothy (Humphrey Jennings, 1945): 2/5
Interesting to see the end of the war told more or less as it’s happening, but that’s buried under more crap sentimental self-congratulation.
Reassemblage: From the Firelight to the Screen (Trinh T. Minh-ha, 1983): 2/5
A hand-wringing ethnic documentary that purposely denies the clichés of the genre yet doesn’t offer much that’s interesting or helpful as a replacement. Philosophic connection of the Sensory Ethnography Lab, but this is no Sweetgrass.
David Crosby: Remember My Name (A.J. Eaton, 2019): 2.5/5
I wanted more music and less personal drama, but I guess that’s Crosby in general.
Love on the Spectrum (Cian O'Clery, 2020): 4/5
A compelling and compassionate five-part documentary series that definitely made me feel like I understood autism much better—they are all so different! I found the subjects very easy to relate to and empathize with, and it made me think that I and everyone I know and love are all on the autism spectrum. But then again that’s what is meant by spectrum, right?
My Octopus Teacher (Pippa Ehrlich and James Reed, 2020): 3.5/5
Thankfully, it veers away from some opening creepiness and becomes a pleasant and beautiful hang-out movie where we just witness what it’s like to be an octopus for a year. Does she get her arm ripped off and consumed by a shark? Yes. Yes she does.
SPOILER ALERT