"You got to move forward because you can't change the past. You can only live in the present. And you just try to make it as full and bright and be as righteous as you can be. But it's rough, man. You know, we're human beings and we have a lot of temptation."
In their (hi)stories of successful losers as well as all the winners who fail perfectly, Jon Bois and Alex Rubenstein find our most human shapes: pleasure in each others’ company, the sublime tension of failing again better, and something like love by a different name.
One could fairly criticize Reggie Dunlop (Paul Newman)—“player-coach” of the Charlestown Chiefs in George Roy Hill's chaotically raunchy Slap Shot—for a wide variety of character flaws and professional failings, but he is true to the letter of St. Francis de Sales’ wisdom: Be who you are and be that well.
Something Wild is an atomic undressing of genre clichés, lies, and costumes. As with the best of Demme’s work, it uses a genre getup solely as an excuse to explore the truth, the realer-than-real funkyjunky Americana (and its multiculti makeup) that so many of Demme’s characters can be at first oblivious to (or costumed appropriators of).
In Jonathan Demme’s 2004 adaptation of The Manchurian Candidate, the truth is a nightmare.
The Talking Heads are strange truth-tellers, joyfully angry people, persistently interested in the power of art. And in Stop Making Sense, collaborating with Jonathan Demme elevates their music into something truly transcendent.
The driving force of John Sayles' Lone Star isn’t the suspense of discovery, but the moral weight of what’s already known—and what people choose to do with it.
"It seems to me there’s a lot of mythologies that exist—mythological positions in film criticism—that I’m trying to combat. One of them is that you can say, in some kind of ultimate way, that one film is good or one film is bad. That’s ridiculous. It seems perfectly reasonable that a film that might be good for me might not be good for you. Therefore, if you say “I”, you’re being honest."
The monsters are real, powerful, capable of exerting their wills on the world. Both Nosferatu and The Vourdalak abandon any pretense at knowing how this evil came to be; what’s scarier is that it exists already, that it’s caught the protagonists flat-footed, and that it’s potent.
Taken together, Almodóvar’s last three films—Pain and Glory, Parallel Mothers, and now The Room Next Door—solve one another, forming a sort of triptych about what it means to make art at the end of a life. Each asks what we leave behind in the world, what lasts, what remains, and together they form an almost scandalously hopeful answer: art is enough, and equal to love, and no different from it.
It’s human nature to want answers. It’s also human nature for those desired answers to tell us something about ourselves.
The Mothman Prophecies illustrates anxiety’s steady build of dread. The deeper John tunnels into his investigation, the more he becomes convinced that some terrible event is fast approaching. He becomes consumed by the dream of knowing what will happen before it happens, the idea that if you simply knew the collision was coming, you could be the one to set the train on a different course.












