ahmedaiman1999

[SPOILER ALERT: This review contains spoilers.]

After his father abandoned him, 11-year-old Cyril has his life put into a tailspin. The story starts off as he keeps relentlessly looking for his bike in hope it leads him to his estranged father. I loved how the Dardennes brothers deceived us into thinking that's how the film plays out for the rest of its runtime. It seemed to me that Cyril will just keep on trying to find his father endlessly to no avail. It turns out, however, that's only how the first third of the film is. But, and to Cyril's dismay, his father wants a new life without him as he think he couldn't manage to take care of his child, having seeing him now as a burden. From that point the plot kicks off. From the first scene where he's determined to call his father despite the phone being out-of-service, Thomas Doret is absolutely brilliant as Cyril as he's trying to be in denial of the fact his father moved away. Then, the news came to forlorn Cyril as a shock, and one could tell he's acting out like a brat lest he gets attached to anyone else, first and foremost his caretaker Samantha (Cécile de France) who's the only person who seems to really care about him and worry about his wellbeing. Cyril saw Samantha as a mother figure; one who's worthy of trusting and who seems ready to contain him, but that's exactly the problem. Hearing the very person whom he depends upon for his survival, distancing himself from him for good. How traumatising that must be for a child; how his sense of self-worth would implode. So, it makes perfect sense Cyril would do his utmost to not have his heart **** again by someone like his father. I imagine a different or, say, a parallel trajectory to Cyril's story: his pain would be too great, too huge to feel and he would end up repressing it. Over time, he would dissociate the roots of his trauma, but one day he'd visit that pent-up rage upon anyone who's in the place of his father, so long as he himself would be out-of-reach at that point. Luckily, and comparatively, Cyril is a freewheeling and spontaneous kind of a kid — he's 'The Kid with a Bike.' Cyril's rage is instantly let loose. While that's entailed tragic consequences, which the film painfully chronicles, I think they're, more or less, told as a chapter in Cyril's life that's due to take its course to teach him a lesson, and the narrative being registered as a karmic playback asserts this point to a considerable extent. Similar to what the Dardennes have done with Sandra (Marion Cotillard) in Two Days, One Night, opting for a narrow focus on the Cyril for almost the entire film makes for a thoroughly engaging and affecting experience without diminishing the significance the secondary characters bear. The Dardennes' sensitive direction explores the touchy subject matter with an empathetic simplicity. It's a film full of nuances you can't help but wonder how accurately in its depiction of a child's trauma. Just keep an eye on how Cyril perceives every shock in his devastating life. Also, similar to said film, the handheld cam is used to lend this film a realistic sense, but is chiefly used here to ratchet up the tension after Cyril gets embroiled in a precarious world rife with crime and exploitation. I have no idea why it's taken me so long to check out another Dardennes' film since I adored Two Days, One Night. Plus, this one centres around a boy neglected by his father and having a hard time coping with that new life of his, and a film of that kind is right up my alley. Glad I finally get to around to seeing it nonetheless, and man did I like it! Aside from a few feel-good bromides one expects to find in a story with a moral value like this, The Kid with a Bike is nearly perfect in my book.

A few spoilery bits throughout! Just like a constellation you're unable to decipher yet sure its stars are linked together to form a certain pattern, the lives of Weronika and Véronique are inextricably, and inexplicably, linked by an invisible thread only intuitively felt. The former lives in Poland while the latter in France, they were born on the same day, share a knack for music (Weronika is a choir singer with an ethereal, angelic voice; Véronique is a music teacher), and suffer from a cardiological problem. They're, in a mythological sense of the word, doppelgängers, who'd better live in two parallel worlds lest bumping into each other would result in putting one another's lives into a tailspin. In one sense, the film is about that person in your dreams who you think, besides looking exactly like you, complements you in ways beyond your capacity even if you're sharing the same affinities as well. A splitting image you'd easily mistake for your other half even though you're pretty much a whole. Someone you long to meet to be fulfilled, and when awake, you grieve for the implausibility of it all. And I think it's within this realm where the movie operates on a subconscious level so that you're effortlessly connected emotionally with it by merely letting yourself immersed in its sepia-drenched images and its downpour to wash over you. However, I wouldn't buy that description at all. In another sense, it's a film about discovering one's own identity. Insofar this seems a proper description that I can't refute, I still think this is just scratching the surface; focusing on obvious details and disregarding the overarching theme. For me, The Double Life of Véronique is about grieving for your younger, juvenile self despite the naivety that led to its demise; about a deep-seated longing for the past that grows on while growing old even though you're more mature and successful now than you were way back when. And this is exactly where the film manages to hit some nostalgic notes, for the film seems to celebrate that desperate longing in one way or another. Besides the puppets show I'll mention later, there's a scene that sums up all this in a few words: Véronique's father shows her a fragrance to try it, she tells him it's nice but the one he showed her the other day was more pleasant. "This is from the end of Autumn, the other was from the beginning," is her father's reply, which he follows by wondering whether people would need this fragrance at all. The movie is chockablock with subtle visual and narrative details carry multi-layered symbolic significance that I couldn't get my head around in my first watch. The Double Life of Véronique is an enigmatic metaphysical tale with an expressionistic set design and cinematography littered with subtleties functioning as an objective correlative, stressing every emotional beat along the way. There's a lot of reflections in The Double Life of Véronique and the look-alike characters see themselves, or rather sense each other, in many things: images; objects. Throughout the first half, we see recurring distortions, upside-down images and mirror-like reflections, some show convexity and others concavity. We see plenty of objects such as a tram window glass, a man's magnifying spectacles, and a starry marble. They're all suggestive of something wrong rippling Weronika's life and irking her of late while bringing her fears of not being "alone in this world" to the fore. Besides, there are many juxtapository images the editing mix in that accentuate the dual nature at the core of the film. Indeed It's a film where objects and images hold immense value to the characters but also work as clues of revealing significance, and expository tools to the viewer as well. It's not until the marionette show where I started to fathom the film through the "metamorphosis by death" metaphor. The shroud is a cocoon? No wonder why there's a shot from the point of view of a corpse! Through this scene, Kieślowski makes a parallel to Véronique's double life, indicating that with the death of Weronika, Véronique began a fully-fledged new life. Moreover, by letting the camera linger on Jacob’s face, Kieślowski captures the intensity of her internal conflict, and by ending the dizzying fits of Weronika with an off-kilter, tilted angle, we collapse with her. Thus, the camera is both a guiding force and a participant in Weronika's crumpling life and Veronique's quest of love and working out her existential issues. The Double Life of Véronique is just a flawless harmony or a poetic mood piece, buoyed by Idziak's ravishing cinematography, Preisner's haunting score, and sees Irène Jacob — in one of the most riveting performances I've ever seen to date — emoting endless feelings across the film's fleeting runtime, taking you on a rollercoaster of emotions from start to finish.

Waiting for her first love's, Michel, return who's been gone for about seven years, Lola seems to have come to terms with the fact he's gone forever. it's just some sort of a desperate longing that would easily fade away hadn't been for lasting memories that one can't help recalling. In Jacques Demy's Nantes, poignancy of loss reigns supreme — whether it's of love or dreams or whatsoever — in spite of its breezy air. In Lola, there's also effortless interlacing between each character that cross paths with another, dredging up each other's long-forsaken memories and, more or less, rejuvenating them through mutual interactions. Having been introduced to the background of Roland Cassard here, I loved how Cherbourg continued his path while bolstering the circular nature of Lola. Aside from a silly plot diversion revolving around Frankie and fourteen-year-old Cécile, cabaret numbers tossed in for some reason and a few plodding moments as it's nearing its third act, Lola is a decent debut of unrequited love and disillusionment, injected with a sense of ennui and a spirit of carefree in equal measure, and featuring beautiful black-and-white wide shots, hand-held constantly-moving camera and light-weighted humour.

I've been meaning to dive into Demy's filmography since hearing he had a huge impact on Chazelle's La La Land, with this one being singled out as the primary influence, that's not to mention it's often cited as Demy's chef-d'œuvre. Infused by jazz melodies as well as thumping percussion for an added flair, featuring eye-candy pastel-coloured set and costume design on full display, and cycling through seasons in a way thematically suggestive, Chazelle's musical is definitely not far removed from this one although each has its own approach to its distinct story. What grabbed my attention the most is how Demy progressively jettisons the fantastical, iridescent world in favour of an otherwise grounded one. From the opening sequence of an aerial view of raindrops pitter-pattering on cobble stones and the titular umbrellas, to the bold, bright colours, to the constant singing, Demy muster all technical tools, congregating to lend a lulling effect that sent me into a delightful stupor, and to kaleidoscopically play up the emotional union and jovial state of Geneviève and Guy who're enamored with each other. Cherbourg is almost presented in pink, before giving to brown-ish and blue hues to emote Geneviève's feelings of forlorn and sadness respectively, and fuchsia and red to suggest warning and uncertainty, when Guy leaves to Algeria due to his conscription, leaving Geneviène facing a tough decision that threatens their relationship. Even colours brimming with joy at first, such as yellow, gradually wane and pale, giving way to some of their dull and faint derived shades. All these create melancholic undertones along the way that ground the film in reality while portending its bittersweet ending where there isn't a dry eye to be found. But The Umbrellas of Cherbourg is a film of the of vicissitudes of life and how one has to resign to fate so long as latching onto hope becomes more and more difficult, and it's more than just a matter of counting the days. The Umbrellas of Cherbourg is also of teenage love and recklessness, and it's here in particular where it sets itself apart from the rest with its sense of verisimilitude. “People only die of love in movies,” said Geneviène's mother who neither believes in love at a young age nor love at first sight. She's pragmatic and even cynical, and maybe that's her main impetus for wanting her daughter to get married to the wealthy jewellery merchant. Yet, her happiness at seeing her blear-eyed daughter a bit cheered up when handed a letter from her lover is real and indicative of a true motherly affection. Make no mistake, this is far from the flawless film I was expecting. The editing is a bit clunky, which shows most in the continuity of music. It also took me a while to adjust to the dialogue, entirely being recited and sung, but soon I started to appreciate the unconventional lyricism of it all. A visual and emotional stunner that's not to be missed by all the fools who dream and lovers of musicals in general.

By tackling some hard-hitting themes of childhood trauma, loss of free will, family (or lack thereof), grief, and haunting guilt, Black Widow could've easily deceived us into believing it really justified its existence, hadn't it eschewed drama for comedy and action. What we got is a middling Marvel effort with a rehashed spy thriller story and its affiliated action set-pieces and plot clichés. Granted, that very spy flavour that bleeds into each act more and more evidently endows us with a couple of slick action sequences that are pulled off with aplomb. It's just unfortunate all of them are devoid of the slightest tension. While on the subject, there's no real sense of danger I feel each time either Natasha or Yelena are supposedly at risk, and The Taskmaster completely fails to prove an imposing threat, that's not to mention it's a villain that's clearly merely skimmed over, with the result of falling victim to the plot's mishmash of clichés. The humour isn't the worst, largely due to Pugh and Harbour whose chemistry elevates each scene they share a great deal. The third act feels the most superhero-y, with a fair share of explosions and CGI-heavy scenes that almost feel incongruous with the relatively small-scope MCU installment Black Widow aims to be. However, It's also here when we get some emotionally-charged moments where Pugh — yup, once again — and Scarlett get there moments to shine, serving a fitting send-off for our titular superhero. Moreover, all of these shortcomings can be tolerated given the joy one gets out of this movie. I was surprised how much time flew by minutes before reaching its post-credit scene that got me really pumped up to see what's coming next.

- Miss Giddens, may I ask you a somewhat personal question? Do you have an imagination? = Oh! Oh, yes, I can answer that. Yes. - Good. With that Miss Giddens seems to be fitting to take up the position of governess to two orphans. It's like being "imaginative" is the only caveat the kids' uncle has towards Ms. Giddens having the job, even if this is, in fact, her first position. Quite hesitant at first, Giddens agrees to be a governess for his nephew and niece, as she finds him "most persuasive." From the reclusive aristocratic bachelor, to the old mansion that Giddens is flabbergasted by its vastness, to the ominous sense that's been established in the first twenty minutes by the inexplicable occurrences and a sense of foreboding, the film is full to the brim with Gothic elements that just keep heightening as the story proceeds. Thematic spoilers ahead! The Innocents has a lot of themes that's inextricably linked to its Gothic style. First, hiding the secret that's fostered by the intentional repression of imagination. Mrs. Grose always tells the children to "pretend" they heard nothing whenever disconcerting noise blare at night, and it's only in a slip of the tongue that she gives away a glimpse of Bly's secretive quality to Miss Giddens. Considering her well intention, we can deduce she's nursing a secret that can entail grave repercussions. As the Uncle says early on, "Truth is very seldom understood by any but imaginative person," and Mrs. Grose tries her best to block even the faintest hint of imaginative thinking to bury the unwelcome truth. Another thing that could also be inferred from the Uncle's quote is that Miss Giddens is set up by him for a task, which is bringing this truth to light. The increasingly claustrophobic interiors of the mansion, and the environment as a whole, asseverate said suppression while contributing to Miss Giddens doubting her sanity. In the house, Giddens also often appears as if confined by light; when outdoors, the incandescent sunlight is depicted as a blinding glint that obstructs Gidden's vision and, thus, making what she aims to see as a blurry unattainable mirage. There's something about omnipresence as well. Flora once mentions to her governess that the idea of someone could be sleeping in different beds at the same time crosses her mind. Later, she asks Giddens if she's in the picture of Giddens' family. That slowly paves the way for the whole 'haunted house' thing story-wise, and makes us ready for some spectres and apparitions that, personally, scared the hell out of me! Speaking of which, Freddie Francis, the cinematographer, utilises the double exposure technique quite to great effect, blinding in superimposed images to create some impressive ghostly shots. That's not to mention that almost every scene-to-scene transition is a dissolving transition that lingers on the screen for more than usual. One more technique that's adeptly implemented is the deep focus, and it's so sharp it could be easily confused for being shot with a split-diopter lens. It keeps both characters in frame, juxtaposing Miss Giddens' bewilderment with the children's baffling indifference. Furthermore, it also suggests something sinister is cooking while lurking beneath the surface. We also get plenty uses of ingenious foreshadowing throughout that go hand in hand with amping up the tension and feel of unease. For instance, there is a slow-motion scene of a cockroach slithering out of a statue of an angelic baby followed by yet another slow-motion scene of pigeons flying by the tower. Both lend a sense of discomfort, but the former, in particular, emphatically foreshadows there's something not-so-innocent about the children. The 'O, Willow Waly' song is a recurring refrain. Whether it's hummed by Flora or played by a music box, it's as spine-chilling as it's implicitly melancholic, betraying a sense of sadness that has to do with the ambiguity of the film. All of these are quintessentially features of Gothic horror. What keep it away from earning a full-mark rating is that the detective diversion the story took near its denouement seemed a forced detour to get the conflict easily resolved, while also resulting in some exposition moments that are a bit out-of-character for a central character in the story. Putting that aside, The Innocents is the epitome of classic Gothic films that I've been craving for a long time, and I'd be hard-pressed to say there's any other film that had scratched my itch that perfectly.

I will never forget the first time I saw La Luna with a crowd. The look of the glowing stars scattered in millions and covering the moon left us in awe — like, we literally wowed at the look of them. Was it the first time for our eyes to be graced with the wonder of magical cinematic experience? Definitely not — or at least not for me. But there was a certain tactile sensation the animation in that short evoked in spades like no other. They seemed tangible. I felt like if I stretched my hand I could touch them, and even feel their weight, bolstered by the glass-like sound they make when they are swept up. Luca has no dearth of that quality. Enrico Casarosa's first feature film has an animation reminiscent of that of stop-motion films. Its 3D animation possesses that malleable look that almost could be mistaken for claymation. That brings a sense of vibrancy to the already-vivid idyllic Italian setting. And when you see the tide soaking the beach pebbles and listen to the pitter-patter of the rain, it's guaranteed you'll feel the breeze coming off from all around you with the redolence of childhood summers. I also adored the underwater world. It's nearly as if it exists in a parallel realm that happens to be in the Mediterranean Sea, where fish bleat and crabs bite when they "sense weakness". No wonder why its inhabitants consider humans "Land Monsters"! Unfortunately, I can't muster up similar praising words when it comes to the story. Sure it's a sweet fish-out-of-water story — I mean, literally — about our titular kid breaking the protective shell built around him by his overprotective parents, while tackling themes of friendship and acceptance. But haven't we had enough of this already. I mean, I'd lose count if I tried to mention how many children-oriented movies that have taken such basis to build their stories upon. The story here hasn't much substance to keep it from dragging. It's definitely a joy watching the trio of under(the)dogs daydreaming about the dream they share of winning the Portorosso Cup and Alberto being the daredevil he is or even bickering with Giulia. Other than that, there's not too much that really happens. Even Luca's antagonist, Ercole Visconti, that garnered plenty of admiration from many people because of how a typical villain in the vein of Toy Story's Sid he is, is nothing more than a bully that no one can stand against. Regardless, there's at least one thematic choice that reinvigorated this traditional fable near its bellissima finale. Without getting into detail, it's something that has to do with doubt in Luca and Alberto's friendship. It's not about it per se — it's nothing new and you can even see that moment coming from a league — but it's the way it ties up how Luca perceives Alberto's quasi-hedonistic view over the course of the story with Luca's fear of destroying the image his parents would like him to present was kind of brilliant. He's striving to satisfy his innate thrill-seeking desire and sense of curiosity while fitting the mould of the "good boy". I think that added an extra layer to the character of Luca. Really enjoyed Pixar's latest effort that, small-scale as it is, overflows with wholesome vibes.

Seems like the vast majority of the movie reviews I read denounce it for lacking in cohesion, and I simply think they're missing the point. In The Heights plays out like a rhapsody, with each character's storyline thread is given singularity and distinct nature to stand out, yet they're all integrated partly due to the free-flowing structure the movie has as well as its main theme that encompasses the entire story — the classism of gentrification and its impending repercussions. Thus, the story offers a sort of communal experience, that it reflects not only its characters, but the whole block that was "disappearing." The story's goings-on spans several days before and after "the blackout" amid a scorching summer. It's Washington Heights where everyone chasing their own little dream (or sueñito), hoping one day they finally reach for the heights that seem to be just there over the horizon yet actually no one can see as they're beyond the blinding streetlights of the soon-to-be-gentrified Nueva York. At the centre stage, we have our narrator, Usnavi. A small little corner store (bodega) owner with a dream of returning home to the Dominican Republic, Usnavi also has a longtime crush on Vanessa — a girl in the neighborhood with an artistic talent for fashion designing, working in a beauty salon and dreams of moving downtown. There's also Sonny, Usnavi's younger cousin and sidekick who works with him. On a side note, Lin-Manuel Miranda decision to leave the role of Usnavi, which he originally played, to Anthony Ramos is a really smart one. Ramos gives his character an amiably rogue-ish charm that Miranda would no longer be able to emanate. Nina's storyline, though, is by miles the richest, more compelling and intricately detailed—albeit more conventional—one. Her father had sold half his share in business to pay for her education, only to find out that her daughter dropped out after her freshman year. Nina's story touches on a few interesting topics as it unravels. She grew bitter at the idea of being an outsider and couldn't stand seeing herself through the prejudiced perspective of her colleagues. Her family of first and second-generation immigrants had managed to assimilate with the new culture without losing their identity, ultimately partly seceding themselves to form their own community. But as for her, she experienced some sort of weltschmerz when she discovered that the hurdle of inherent prejudice still exists. She's unwelcomed, and even humiliated and treated as a dodgy person solely because of her ethnicity. What further exacerbates Nina's adversity is the fact she has always been regarded from her father, as well as her whole neighborhood, as the genius kid from whom they anticipated a lot. Even as an undergrad, the small girls in the block look up to her as an inspiration. All that proves a burden to her already self-disparaged self. All that said, we always see that community standing in solidarity and resilience in the face of their hardships, sustaining their Washington Heights with hectic and lively atmosphere. We get plenty of insert shots that focus on, in the words of Abuela Claudia—the barrio's matriarch, "the little details that tell the world [they] are not invisible." Speaking of the character of Abuela, she's basically the heart and soul of the community. She inherited the "American dream"— that of barely surviving the new environment—from her mother. When she was young, she managed to cope with the challenges she faced on a daily basis. As an old woman, she burnt herself like a candle for illuminating her neighbourhood in ways that seem to surpass the metaphorical sense of the word. Furthermore, the matriarchal power of the neighborhood, in general, lays on the acculturation basis of "integration" rather than either "assimilation" or "separation." As Carla sings, "My mom is Dominican-Cuban. My dad is from Chile. Which means, I'm Chile-Domini-Curican. But I always say I'm from Queens." Here we get that they aim to simultaneously adopt the new culture while retaining their heritage proudly. On multiple occasions throughout the movie, and especially in the titular musical number, we see the players' movements synchronized with music perfectly. And it's clear there was a painstaking attention given to the choreography of every musical number. Whether they're jumping in the air, splashing water or dancing in the streets, all the players are seen engaged in unison in jubilant celebrations of the potential for realizing their dreams, or for warding off the their troubles along with the heatwave. It's worth noting that many of the tunes are syncopated (the offbeats are emphasized; the weak beats are stressed instead of the normally strong ones), which lends the music a more human quality due to its decidedly imperfect nature. The tonal shifting is blatantly inconsistent at some points, but that's the only complaint I can think of.

Let me say right off the bat that I'm neither a fan of crime caper films nor of Soderbergh. I just came for the cast and they all delivered, with Cheadle, Del Toro and Harbour as the real standouts. As for the story itself, I wasn't ready for it to escalate that quickly and to develop into something extremely convoluted about corporate greed with historical subtext as it does, even with the archival Detroit photos flashing intermittently as Don Cheadle's character, Curt, walks during the opening credits. So it shouldn't come as a surprise that the movie lost me about halfway through. Still, I genuinely admired the 70s look the film has about it, which can be most notable in the wide-angle, panoramic shots with mild barrel lens distortion (intentionally mimicking a by-product of wide-angle shooting in the early 70s, causing a distortion in the corners of the lens) in addition to the retro credits with the funky font and music. No Sudden Move is also immersed in film-noir flair, with a surfeit of low-angle and Dutch-angle shots, emphasizing power and vulnerability, and conveying a sense of tension, respectively. By the way, there is a fair amount of tense moments in the movie, some are competently gradually built-up for and others come in in a sudden influx. Wish I got much more out of this film, though.

With a masked killer and piled-up dead bodies spurting buckets galore of blood, the first installment in the trilogy that will be released weekly over the course of July screams at you that it will be crammed with 90's slasher sub-genre tropes to the hilt. And it is. The story zeros in on a group of teens living in a the town of Shadyside, which is in a feud with the neighboring town of Sunnyvale, with an advantage to the latter due to the stigma that surrounds Shadyside for being notorious for a bloodstained history of murders. The plot takes ages to actually kick off, as I think the movie got carried away quite a bit in laying out its 90s-inspired setting. Our teenage heroes are: Deena (Kiana Madeira), who, despite witnessing an accident, spends a big chunk of the movie in denial of the real threat, underestimating it and regarding it as a series of pranks. Her brother, Josh (Benjamin Flores Jr.), is a nerd, internet-obsessed introvert who's a firm believer that what happens in the town is an entailment of darker secrets. Accordingly, he spends his time tracing the murders over the history, attempting to put the pieces together. Additionally, there are Kate (Julia Rehwald) and Simon (Fred Hechinger), classmates who serve as the comic relief characters at first before the story takes a darker, more earnest turn in its second half. Things improves significantly from there onwards. We finally get a glimpse at the lore the other two parts would expand on. But it's how the film unfolds is what impressed me for it somewhat managed to dodge the traps similar films that try to capture the characteristic features **** in a certain era it pays an homage to fall into: either ending up being a mere flimsy imitation of the movies in question or a self-serious film that tries too hard to keep things on a light footing. First, I think it's a pretty smart decision that of taking a seamless diversion in its general tone from a full-on cheesy horror flick to a more serious and more dramatically hefty one while keeping on the campiness with no skimping on jump scares, juicy blood splatter, rapid zoom-ins, to name a few, to the last minute, as well as occult and possession (sorta!!) elements, which are even at the core of the plot. That's not to mention a plethora of references to classic horror films such as Night of the Living Dead, Dawn of the Dead and Jaws, as well as an allusion to The Shining and the door-breaking axe scene, but that's beside the point, anyway. Secondly, and as faithful to the 90s era as it is, the movie doesn't shy away from borrowing the distinct Stranger Things-approach that has been the go to for any film lately that tries to balance out the dread of horror films with a nostalgic flavor, the thing that also, somehow, heightens the intense spooky moments and renders them quite unsettling, due to the discordance between the warm ambiance — that of nostalgia — that prevails the scene and the gory, shocking happenings that penetrate it. Finally, in its exploration of the mythology, the movie clearly takes a page or two from the modern horror films that revived the genre in the recent years. However, with the exception of some twists, the story is very predictable and also has a formulaic structure. And one could see how the arcs of the characters would wind up from a mile. To end on a positive note, the soundtrack is chock-full of cool, adeptly implemented needle drops. Can't wait for the even more messy and gruesome 70s horror!

That's your problem. You don't wanna be in love, you wanna be in love in a movie. Rummaging through the movies that really helped me at my lowest points, You've Got Mail was the first one that came to mind. So instead of giving it a rewatch (I do hate it when movies don't live up to my first viewing of them), I thought it was a sign I should finally get around to the other Hanks/Ryan Nora Ephron film. Again, this one proves how exceptionally good Ephron was at balancing out the gooeyness of her far-fetched romantic stories with some sincere dialogue that grounds a story about a star-crossed lovers in reality. The premise of two people who have never met and live on opposite ends of the country become infatuated with each other seems destined to leave viewers incredulous. But at its core, it's a story about a man (Sam) overcoming grief after losing his wife, instantly thawing the cynicism of a woman (Annie) once she hears on a radio about his "magical" love story he once had. Consequently, Annie goes to great lengths to meet Sam while grappling with the idea of leaving her strait-laced fiancé in the process for fear of leading more of a satisfactory life rather than a genuine one. That's why Annie's storyline proved more interesting to me, and Meg Ryan did an amazing job at expressing this kind of a dilemma Annie goes through from the moment she's crying while listening to the radio to the very end. She managed to express a myriad of troubling emotions that can only be inferred because of the lighthearted nature of the film. The chemistry between her and Hanks is once again undeniable despite, sadly, sharing very few scenes together. Crammed with humorous cynicism and self-awareness, Sleepless in Seattle also elicits more than its fair share of chuckles, whether coming from its endless movie references (with An Affair to Remember being at the top of them) or Hanks's sweet interactions with his on-screen son. Definitely not near as tightly-scripted as You've Got Mail, as its plot sometimes may feel like is stretched-out to death. Plus, despite being perfectly paired with some scenes, the soundtrack is full of on-the-nose choices. Nevertheless, Sleepless in Seattle is just the mood-booster I wanted right now.

Two tempting routes instantly manifest themselves for us after losing a loved one: wallowing in sadness forever and detaching oneself from life while being very much alive. Neither of them makes a logical sense. Logic aside, however, neither can spare us such an inexorable phase or get us out of it miraculously. Julie seems to have veered into the latter route in order to evade slipping down the abyss of the first. But grief must take its natural course, and suppressing it would result in truly dire circumstances at their worst scenario would be being imprisoned by depression, shrouding us metaphorically until a shroud takes its place quite literally. "Now I have only one thing left to do: nothing. I don't want any belongings, any memories. No friends, no love. Those are all traps." Kieślowski incessantly tries to save her from such fate and draw her back to life once again. His camera lingers in extreme close-ups on Juliette Binoche's features to draw out of them a smidgen of the sadness Julie does her utmost to bury inside herself. Later on as Julie keeps pushing grief away in her quest of severing herself from the past, she finds herself drawn back to it as memories surround her everywhere and no matter hard she tries to escape them. When she returns back to her home for the first time after the accident that cost the lives of her husband (a renowned music composer) and her daughter, she asks the gardener if he has emptied the "blue" bedroom, which implies her trying of getting rid of the past. She goes upstairs only to find a "blue"-beaded chandelier, that's likely belonged to her daughter, hanging over her, just like her memories of her daughter. Julie's journey of liberating herself, in one sense, from her past life becomes impeded with reminders of her two dears she lost. Furthermore, Julie's incomplete grief begets anger and irritability that put her mental state at stake. And as memories relentlessly haunt her, she ends up surrendering to them, literally having her head under (blue)water. However, blue gradually begins to mutate its symbolic significance as liberation takes on a totally different definition in Julie's mind. It's here where Zbigniew Preisner's score blossoms into a salvaging tool. There's one scene, in particular, that I found fascinating where Julie and her husband's colleague trying to complete her husband's unfinished manuscript. The shot is pulled out of focus until it becomes almost utterly blurred, forcing the viewer to hear the music playing inside of their heads as they orchestrate parts of it. It's still a liberation of the past, but one of letting go of it while maintaining, nay cherishing its memories instead of eliminating them. A liberation that thrives on a catharsis for all of Julie's repressed painful feelings, bringing forth her deepest sobs and setting her free.

[SPOILER ALERT: This review contains spoilers.]

Art is purifying. It commemorates the **** longed for indelible memories of the past. But it passes them through a sieve, filtering out its crippling, lingering ailments and retaining its healing nostalgic charm. Pain and Glory is definitely Almodóvar at his most maturely reflexive, and my personal favourite of his thus far.

One thing I noticed, and adored, about Almodóvar, is that despite his unequivocal propensity for incorporating comedy with melodrama, there's no way his films could come across as either silly or overly sentimental. For his stories are laced with considerable nuance. His Women on the Verge on a Nervous Breakdown, which is also based on Jean Cocteau's play, "La voix humaine" as this short is, maintains an incremental humorous tone so much so it could be adequately described, by its end, as a farce. Yet, as we see Pepa trying to figure out why her lover dumped her without an explanation, Almodóvar delves into Pepa's psyche with great subtlety that's apt for her precarious state. It's a story with no shortage of details. That's why I thought The Human Voice would benefit greatly from the concentrated nature of short films. Our unnamed protagonist's waiting for three days for her lover to come in a last chance to see him has filled her with rage. A vindictive rage almost identical to that of The Bride in Kill Bill, but she still loves him. So she acts out like a maniac: stabbing one of her lover’s suits with an axe in a harmless cathartic release. She wouldn't dare to actually hurt him; she still loves him. Therefore, she's so vulnerable. Over the course of her conversation with his lover, her seemingly stable and wry demeanour gradually crumbles, exposing both her helplessness and her futile undirected rage. Almodóvar brilliantly highlights such contradiction by placing her in her exuberantly furnished, sumptuously colored apartment that's constructed on a soundstage. As she grows more desperate, she begins to lose control. Finally, she decides to free herself from the submissive woman she was, and put an end to their toxic relationship — after all, her love made her too fragile and delicate to venture to turn the tables on him as Alma did on Reynolds in Phantom Thread. The thing is, I didn't feel that she loves him. What's baffling is that I can't put my finger on why exactly I feel so, but it's likely due to the stagy feel this film has. It is a showcase of Tilda Swinton's thespian prowess, but, at times, her monologue comes off rather like a soliloquy — like there's no one on the other side of the phone line. Regardless, The Human Voice is an eye-popping, exquisitely-made feminist work with witty sarcastic undertones.

Besides the fact it's directed by Joe Wright who's behind the 2005's brilliant adaptation of Jane Austen's masterwork, Pride and Prejudice, and that it stars Amy Adams in the leading role (because she's Amy Adams!), The Woman in the Window has been one of my most anticipated films of the year since knowing that its lead character suffers from agoraphobia, a subject that piqued my interest for the last couple of years. Amy Adams plays the eponymous heroine, Anna. An alcoholic agoraphobic child psychiatrist who when she's not drinking wine and watching movies she quotes word-for-word, she occupies herself by spying on her neighbours, observing their activities as some sort of a abreaction to her incapacitating phobia. This voyeuristic behaviour seems to be endorsed by her own psychiatrist. In his words, "curiosity is the evidence of a decreased depression pattern," a clue that her agoraphobia was resulted from depression. Anna's anxiety disorder doesn't merely confine her to her home, for it also keeps her in a constant fear of finding herself in stressful situations, the thing that makes her very easily startled. She perceives every noise or object coming from outside her house as a source of menace. Her eyes being shown in close-ups from the opening shot and throughout the movie (with one shot including her eye alongside Salvador Dalí's eye curtain from Hitchcock's Spellbound) could be interpreted as a symbol that fittingly ties up with the film's theme of voyeurism. But aside from that, Anna's eyes being always depicted wide-open makes them susceptible to assault from what she fears, which indicates that her constant state of apprehension is her own culprit. And Amy Adams conveys Anna's tumultuous emotions and lack of instability impeccably. Additionally, Bruno Delbonnel's noir-ish visual touches along with an exemplary sound design found their way across the film to express Anna's state of mind audiovisually. Her house is drenched in yellow to represent Anna's paranoia. Sharp, abrupt cuts reflect her nervous and fidgety conduct. Shots of a vertiginous staircase lend a sense of dizziness. The sound of doorknobs as they are twisted to open the door is enough to make Anna's heart skipping a beat and even fainting. Ok, what comes of all that build-up? Or rather, how will all these pieces be combined and brought together into a cohesive whole? Easy. Just take all of these elements, amp them up to 11, put them in a blender and splatter them out! Dutch angles, asymmetrical compositions, extreme close-ups, low and high-contrast lighting (chiaroscuro), and more noir visual elements are copiously and gratuitously thrown on the screen in quick succession. The result is, they all just wind up being confusing and don't add up anything to what've been established earlier. What about the mystery? The movie keeps teetering between portraying Anna as a lunatic (nothing good comes off that save for a shot or two that harken back to the 19-century Gothic literature and the Madwoman trope) and depicting her as a victim to gaslighting (which was subtly foreshadowed earlier, as one of the films Ethan borrowed from Anna was George Cukor's Gaslight). Neither of these routes, however, are given enough delineation to be taken or rather to be torn between. But anyway, the movie quickly abandons the conundrum it was going for in favour of an easy, hackneyed device in a futile attempt to justify that jumbled mess of a second act, which builds towards an early, unearned reveal. But be that as it may, I didn't mind an anti-climactic ending as long as the window's curtain is finally going to be drawn. Much to my dismay, there was still a third act, and boy was it horrendous! The movie that's riddled with references to other noir films — including to Rear Window, of course, to the point I doubted if The Woman in the Window is actually a riff on it — has suddenly become a cheesy b-horror movie. Groovy! The fact that one side character shows up after another without being introduced beforehand didn't bother me. For with each of them, I saw many potential threads. All of which, unfortunately, never successfully weaves anything of interest with Anna. They all end up being mere plot devices without giving them even a fraction of the consideration they were supposedly afforded, and the incredible cast of A-listers can't really save them despite having a couple of moments where they truly shine, mainly Gary Oldman and Julianne Moore. Such a let down!

Relying on its melodramatic strength, affectingly poignant score and sumptuous colour palette, the movie goes full force right off the bat towards its core concept driving the story forward, relentlessly pulling at heartstrings and leaving us completely choked up. Then, it seems to abandon what it set up, and begins to liberate itself only to unveil, little by little, its rich and intricate tapestry of femininity and maternity. Through a growing web of female characters, All About My Mother celebrates female solidarity as we see each one shows right in time to rescue the other from the brink of collapse by creating emotional bonds between one another to fill in each other's gaps and get each others to complement their missing halves. Stupendous performances from all around, but I was struck, in particular, by Cecilia Roth's bravura performance as the lead character Manuela. The emotional range she shows is impressive and the entire movie she seems as if her eyes locked in tears, ready to fall anytime her son is brought up in any conversation. These scenes show how inextricably linked her complex feelings of haunting grief are, as she mourns Esteban's death and her being bereft of maternity at the same time. All About My Mother is also a panorama of vivid colours and moments of 'joie de vivre' that keep the film light on its feet while bolstering its tribute to actresses as well as its female spirit. Crazy how All About My Mother winds up giving perfect closure to the relationships between the characters and the themes it explores after getting carried away a bit too far now and then.

With lurid and bold colours redolent of giallo films and a sense of macabre glee that's indicative of something mysterious lurking somewhere, Almodóvar deftly set the tone for Volver before lurching to comedy, firing on all cylinders with a malleable formula of strangely alluring melodrama and fiendishly farcical humour. Volver is a provoking film of death, domestic abuse and confessions, all encapsulated in rather breezy supernatural elements involving apparitions and superstitions. Plus, Penélope Cruz has never been better than she is here.

Do you ever feel that you've had adulthood thrust upon you at too young an age? And that... you're still essentially a child... mimicking the behaviors of the grown-ups all around you so they won't uncover the meager contents of your heart? A few minutes in, I thought this is going to be one of these movies that adopt some sort of a false pretense in order to satirize the rich and upper class. Well, as I finished the movie I still think it is. But the story's attempts to dodge clichés surrounding this type of films had me constantly not only striving to classify it, but also quite baffled to know what's the point of it in the first place. Suffice it to say, it meanders a lot, especially regarding its tone which I'm not sure either the first act or Pfeiffer's magnetic performance as the delightfully sardonic Frances Price were enough to set it properly. As I said, it's meandering. And the whimsy of it being turned up to eleven in spasmodic bursts — while perfectly suits the oddball characters and the Anderson-esque style the movie has about it — feels a bit incongruous with the tender and emotive core of the story that I could catch glimpses of as the story progresses and its caustic layer being peeled off sporadically. With some touches that border on surrealism, I believe the movie become very close to going completely off the rails in its latter half to the point of stretching its believability a little too far. But everything was done efficiently and with great panache so much so I couldn't help reconciling myself with whatever this film is trying to achieve and I think I was well rewarded by the end. I finally could figure out what it is about — hopefully. Without getting into details to avoid spoiling anything, I think French Exit is a character study of a woman, Frances Price, who tries to break away from the phony life she leads. She's fundamentally a good and "real" person, but she's confined to the stereotypes of her aristocratic social strata. She takes a huge step towards fulfilling her purpose, only to find that the consequences of such action come arbitrarily and at a time she's neither financially, mentally nor emotionally prepared for, the thing that resulted in her having a midlife crisis of sorts. Lucas Hedges does an excellent job at complementing this with his understated performance as Frances's son, Malcolm. But Pfeiffer really knocked it out of the park here! A bizarre satirical dramedy that might not be everyone's cup of tea, but it's definitely worth checking out.

Ever wondered why does a well-told love story always work in every movie regardless of its genre? Be it a shoot-'em-up actioner, a swashbuckling fantasy, an alien-invasion sci-fi or a cowboy western, nothing can prove a constraint to the power of love in cinema. For love thrives in cinema. It has the ability to ground the most wild and fanciful stories in reality because it evokes emotion in such a way the viewer comes to identify with the characters and invest in the story readily. Satoshi Kon captures that notion here to perfection, blurring the logical line between reality and fiction, forcing us to completely rely on what we feel as we're letting the movie wash over us. "The Key" is a catalyst that opened the flood-gates of memories of the eponymous actress, letting these memories rush out in flashback scenes the two documentarians interviewing Chiyoko are literally pulled into them. The cheekily innovative way of making them intervene in her quasi-fictional stories added a sense of meta and light relief that imbued the film with much needed breeziness. In addition, that made us pry to Chiyoko's both inner and outer feelings throughout her cinematic and love-pursuing journey. That said, Millennium Actress perhaps runs too short to make a lasting impact on me, and the frenetic pace doesn't help either. I'm sure, however, that a rewatch can make me pump my rating up. "I can't remember! Not even his face! I loved him so much. Now I can't remember his face!" The story moulds the agonizing feelings of longing in memory vessels that would preserve love so long as youthfulness lasts. But youthfulness withers, allowing memories to fade away. Here comes the struggle that's even harder than the life-time seeking of love: the struggle of desperately trying to hold onto memories of lost love while your aging mind failing you. That's when you even fail to lament your most precious loss! The story here takes a huge metaphysical leap to emphasize the immortality of love and cinema.

The decision is made. Badii is intent to end his life, and all he asks for is someone who could bury him as he's lying in his grave he's already dug out. We have no idea why exactly Badii is willing to kill himself. And in this lack of explanation not only we're asked to focus on the 99-minute journey instead of the destination, but we're also implicitly informed that Badii's soul is no longer being tormented but it's already gasping out its last breath; which means it's not dead yet, though. If it hadn't been for Homayoun Ershadi, Badii would've seemed dead, even as he's driving his truck. For Eshadi's sorrow-laden eyes expose the misery that burdens Badii's soul and, in turn, prompts him to "free [himself] from this life," and that what makes him clutching at a straw even if he himself is completely unaware of that. There's nothing surrounding him that could urge him to give the idea a second thought. All we see are some bleak and dismally empty and desolate landscapes. The sound of silence permeate the screen to reflect the excruciating ennui Badii feels, and the only sounds that break the silence intermittently are the cacophonous sound of machines or other jarring sounds. Kiarostami also detaches him, and us, from the world Badii has long forsaken, making us listen to conversations with the speakers almost off-screen. And the only life form Badii seems to observe are not of the people he interacts with—simply because his mind is solely concentrating on seeking someone to assist him do what he wants—but those of crows. Along his journey, innate goodness of human beings like "refraining from doing any harm to anyone" or "offering a hand whenever encountering someone in need or trouble" are manifested, but so long as these traits interfere with Badii's intent, they come off as hurdles to what he plans to do and they just end up pass by him unnoticed. As he's in a stage beyond any rational thinking, religious and philosophical advices fall on deaf ears as well. No one can change his mind. A long lecturing would definitely be of no help, unless beneath its veneer of didacticism lies a life-affirming power and an irrefutable optimism of an epiphanic impact. What kept me from giving this five stars is that the lack of information about Badii distanced me emotionally from him at the beginning. Regardless, Taste of Cherry is a minimalist masterpiece that celebrates life by showing us its value and beauty hidden in its simplicity.

It's true that a compilation of 11 vignettes that centre around somewhat esoteric, yet also trifling, exchanges of conversation between two or three people, with the majority of them being celebrities playing themselves, while vibing and sipping coffee and smoking cigarettes does sound super boring and even pointless. But with his signature subtly absurd humour and monochrome aesthetic that lend the film a meditative quality and a melancholic warmth, Jarmusch managed to explore some universal human themes, such as envy and addiction, in surprising depth and with unexpected layers of complexity.

Watching TV, playing poker, and sleeping are pretty much everything Willie does every day. His life is uneventful to say the least, and it seems that he's completely unaware that he is trapped in his illusion of 'American dream', leading his life mindlessly as isolation created for him an independent-seeming façade that numbs his brain and blinds him from realising his purposeless life. Then comes his cousin, Eva, to live with him for a few days before moving to Cleveland with her aunt. Her 10-day stay, as short as it is, creates ripples in Willie's monotonous daily routine that incrementally changes and ultimately upends his life. Eva's uninvited stay is met by Willie with reluctance, but Jarmusch's long and uninterrupted shots that abruptly fade out in a snippet-like way infuse the scenes the trio (as Willie's friend, Eddie, joins them) share together with an airy flair that urges the viewer to notice them unspokenly communicate, gradually getting along and, eventually, grow a strong attachment to each other. Quiet, still and stagnant as they are, these moments come across as inviting and endearing because of the authentic spontaneity that permeates the intermittent the delivery of the dialogue. As absurdism thrives on randomness, silence and repetition, the movie is adequately suffused in dry humour. The third chapter is probably the weakest, but it has some shots of barren and desolate landscapes that sublimely invoke the theme of isolation and detachment, and a picaresque quality to it that balances out the film's bleakness.

With a breakneck pace, Looney Tunes-esque ridiculously-exaggerated sound effects, boisterously rambunctious style, vertiginous camerawork and hysterical editing, I guess calling this **** crazy Coens' crime comedy film a live-action cartoon wouldn't be preposterous. It's wild and quirky, but it's also extremely smart and clever in every respect. Just like a cartoon, it finds humor in the most horrifying scenes by hyperbolizing the violence to the brink of absurdity. But there's also boasts of that signature Coen brothers' stone-faced, deadpan humour here. Uses of repetition and refrains permeate the movie to produce some chuckles, but some of them are inextricably linked to the theme itself, most notably H.I. McDunnough's frequent run-ins with the law. Raising Arizona is also playful and cheeky, and I believe that is where it gains its heart. At the surface, the moments of emotional inertia are played for comedic effect, but they actually make room for H.I. McDunnough to reconsider and reevaluate the whole situation he and his wife are in after kidnapping the baby and ruminates over the consequences he regretfully waits. Nicholas Cage shines in these moments as his face that shows how bested by unavoidable fears he is juxtaposes the rather eccentrically affable atmosphere that predominates the entire movie. Holly Hunter's Ed, though, is the one who retains the emotional core of the movie that's ultimately unveiled by the end to hammer home the sweet message of the story. Hunter is phenomenal, and it's not her fault that the lunatic absurdism overshadowed the story's emotional beats every so often, the thing that made the movie a bit crude. Nevertheless, Raising Arizona is a fantastically maniac non-stop chase movie that's extremely heartfelt and kind at its essence, much like Gale and Evelle.

In all honesty, the plot is awfully muddled I couldn't even figure out what it is about, and it keeps going off at a tangent frequently with all its twists and turns until it becomes almost entirely obfuscated by the end. But seeing whip pans, dolly-tracking shots, overheads of perfectly placed props and profile shots among others that would later become Wes Anderson's visual trademarks is oddly satisfying and special in its own way. Sure they seem half-ripe and lacking in the tantalizing aesthetic quality that define the look of Anderson's films, but they are all there and as effectively and perfectly employed as in the auteur's most acclaimed efforts. And the same can be said about the hodgepodge of evocative music choices. Madcap and slapstick moments are present as well. What truly piqued my attention, and gripped me throughout the hour-and-half runtime, are the warmth of friendship between the lead duo (played by Luke and Owen Wilson) and spirit of camaraderie between the three pals that, alongside the plotline revolving around Anthony’s romance with a hotel chambermaid, give the movie a feel that's at once tender, free-wheeling and delightfully charming tending to make one think of John Hughes. Whilst the attempts at making a caper story with a light-hearted approach are worthy of appreciation, I think it's fair to say that it is the weakest link here. Still, Bottle Rocket is a small-scale joyride and a confident debut for one of the most idiosyncratic filmmakers working today.

Bertolucci uses film as a true artistic medium, with his manipulation of lighting and shadows, camera movement and arresting mise-en-scène as well as a non-linear narrative structure to create a grandiose psychologically enigmatic character study that's intoxicating and alluring in equal measure.

Taking such a stupendous premise and whittling it down to nothing more than an Avatar-ish story didn't only diminish its message completely, but also squandered a huge potential that could've been put into creating one of the most unique dystopian Sci-fi movies of late. The Noise gimmick serves as a fairly effective comedic tool as Todd proves awkward around Viola. Other than that, it is nothing but a constant nuisance that made this cliché-loaded Sci-fi actioner an unbearable watch. Tom Holland deserves so much better. (3.5/10)

Memories that you **** remember because of how simple life was back then. It seems that Jarmusch has dipped his brush in them before painting this otherwise off-beat, cool tapestry of three stories woven around the spirit of Elvis Presley. It's an ode to the ephemeral simple moments, only commemorated with a tinge of amiable quirkiness and deadpan humour to lend them some levity. And with a very aesthetic palette, Robert Müller magnify the intensity of colours to bring life and vividness against the vague tone of the movie and the tacky set design. Seeing Paterson and now this, I can safely assume that Jarmusch really manage to combine absurdity with poignancy very well. (8.5/10)

For a movie with so many reviews teetering between either disparaging its direction as a Malick-wannabe or lauding it as having something eloquently poetic about it reminiscent of Terrence Malick, I was astonished to find The Dig far from being nearly as divisive as it should be. There's broad consensus that it's a well-acted and well-shot film despite its shortcomings. With only Days of Heaven under my belt (along with quite a few video essays about Malick's style), the only two rights I have here are to agree that: the comparison made here is valid; and the movie is decent at best. With low-angle, wide lens shots, wind-carried camera coming towards and away from the characters, and detaching the dialogue from the on-screen events that let us hover over the characters, it may well be argued that the technical approach rendered the film said poetic quality and a dream-like feel that implicitly beseech the viewer to give in to the meditative atmosphere that prevails the scene. Alas, this approach seems to be at odds with the most salient plotline in the story, or at least the one it was going for at first: the excavation of Sutton Hoo. For the movie neither probes into the remarkable discovery that forms the supposedly overarching thematic plotline nor does it completely ignore it. The story set it up in a fairly compelling way, only to ditch it quite early for the dramatic subplots surrounding the two lead characters, leaving the historic achievement merely skimmed over. To be fair, Basil Brown and Edith Pretty are multi-layered characters that reveal themselves more and more as the story proceeds, and I could tell that from the get-go, only looking at Fiennes and Mulligan's sorrow-laden countenances that seem to hide (and actually are hiding) secrets underneath the story would later unravel. Still, the movie wasn't keen on diving into the characters' profiles, leaving much to be desired. Then, out of nowhere, the story shift its focus to another subplot concerning Lily James's Peggy Piggott. It's quite possibly the most interesting segment in the story, and Lily James really gave one of her most riveting performances to date. Be that as it may, this jarring shift from one storyline to another is rather distracting, aggravating the movie's lack of consistency even further, and the fact Mrs. Pretty's storyline was sidetracked for no reason makes it all the worse. Thankfully, and as the story wraps up, the movie finally acquired a discernible identity. The character arcs were mostly tied up gracefully and neatly, the technical prowess at its most thriving, and the film regained its contemplative tone with a dash of weltschmerz tossed in for effective measure. Despite its blatant inextricably linked issues, The Dig is a stunning-looking, great film with even greater performances buried inside a rather muddled one. (7/10)

In the first couple of scenes, my optics were shocked by WKW trademarks, flagrantly thrown before my face. This is, and I hate to say it, Wong Kar-wai at his most immature, trying to enthrall the audience who are first introduced to his cinema in his English feature debut with his sensual and lustrous visuals as if they were, in themselves, what made him the idiosyncratic and influential filmmaker he is. Lost love and faded dreams are, more or less, the essential themes that reverberate through each of his art pieces. Yet, the doubt he's treading familiar ground over and over again has never crossed my mind when I see his characters amidst their feelings of longing, indulging in pain. Sadly, I felt that here, the thing that forced me to judge this film outside the canon of "WKW Cinema." For the first time, it sounds that he exposes some sort of lack of confidence, as if he deals with his freewheeling, near-plotless and episodic nature of his films as flaws that need to be sorted out by bashfully concealing them in the midst of the superfluous use of step-printing alongside the charm of hollywood actors starring this film. But, and as the movie obliterated any chance it would be judged within the canon of "WKW Cinema," I have to say that My Blueberry Nights is an irresistibly delectable treat with a fairly tasteful romantic flavour enough to mellow my heart and no shortage of cherries on the top served by the appeal and the charisma of the cast. (6.5/10)

Moving from non-diegetic sound to diegetic sound of classical music the dementia-afflicted titular father is listening to while relaxing, we right away found ourselves slipping into his mind and, subsequently, descending into his deteriorating mental state. Thus, we're instantly warned that what we're going to witness of events are, by and large, untrustworthy. Adopting such narration technique isn't the easiest to pull off, never mind when applied to a character-driven story doubting "the fabric of his reality." For in case it failed, the story would be in total shambles (Capone is a case in point, assuming that was its intent in first place); and if it paid off, the story would offer us a sympathetic look at its main character. Florian Zeller managed to do the near-impossible, generating empathy towards a character we're not suffering from what it suffers by tapping on the truth we relentlessly evade each time we see our grandparents, for instance, fail to recall words, our names or even to recognise who we are while they're doing their utmost to convince us otherwise. This film embraces this fear to a disturbingly horrifying degree. We found ourselves pondering over what we see as an impending condition so much so we're simultaneously letting the uneasiness dominates our thoughts while we're sitting watching the movie. Zeller also managed here to give The Father a clinical quality reminiscent of psychological horror films to keep us always on the verge of being painfully unsettled at any time. High pitched sharp sounds and disquietingly cozy furniture(s) are here to accentuate this feeling so that a little boundary-pushing moment would send a shiver down the spine along with some suppressed tears begging to be shed. And then we have Hopkins delivering a tour de force performance that will soon or later be regarded as one of his best. Through his character, we see him in an utter bewilderment, incessantly trying to figure out what's happening around him and make sense of all that "nonsense" in such manner that force you to do so along with him. That's the definition of an engaging performance. Another thing I noticed through his facial expressions is the that he seems to be constantly processing his surroundings as well as every words he hears. A truly brilliant performance that dictates how similar characters should be played. I'm really hoping Riz Ahmed wins since it would be his first Oscar but, truth be told, Sir Hopkins is more worthy of it. Olivia Colman is absolutely amazing as always, but it's Imogen Poots as the nurse (Laura) that caught me off guard with the scenes she shares with Anthony. The spontaneity of elderly people that can be inadvertently offensive and their fear of being mocked at or at least of being treated rather as children collide here in way that made me continuously switch back and forth between sympathising towards each of them. This is a unique, unprecedented cinematic achievement, and definitely my favourite movie of 2020. (10/10) ~Spoiler Alert~ A spoiler warning here as I'm talking about a certain motif in this movie, that is the "watch". Besides the "apples" in Pieces of a Woman, this is yet another deft use of motifs in movies from the last year. The watch here indicates Anthony's grasp of the sense of time and age. His watch is first mentioned as being snatched by Laura. Later on, we see Anthony suspects Paul to be wearing his watch. In both occasions, it was the first time for him to be introduced to these characters, and the fact he failed to recognise them made them sources of intimidation that threaten his supposed control over his memory. In the soul-crushing ending scene where he's with his nurse, Catherine, he says that he wants his mom but his nurse corrects that he means his daughter. However, he insists that it's his mom, then he mentions that he wants her and that he's losing his leaves. Then, in a last desperate attempt to convince himself of his sanity, he says that he knows that his watch is on his wrist. From all this we may gather that his last monologue seems to sum up all his life, and his aging to be precise. His life went in full circle and now he's a child again in a pressing need of his mom.

I genuinely think this has one of the best screenplays ever. The way it employs the unreliable narration is transcendent, to say the least. Clues to the main character's unreliability are in plain sight, yet we can't help taking every chance to put the blame on Summer, simply because the [love] story is told from a one-sided perspective, that of the selfish character of Tom. With a ridiculous amount of charm, mostly derived from the electric chemistry between its two leads, and a slick non-linear narrative structure, (500) Days of Summer is disguised as a Romantic-Comedy with a new spin on the genre tropes, while it actually serves as a clever subversion of them that effortlessly fools us all.

While the craftsmanship of sound design is nothing short of excellent, it's nothing more than practical. It's by no means exceptional, but that doesn't take away anything from its value and efficiency that, in part, rendered this movie a truly immersive experience. It's Riz Ahmed's bravura performance, though, that gives Sound of Metal resonance that, in turn, made Ruben one of the most relatable movie characters I've witnessed in recent memory. His ability to reflect his fluctuating feelings throughout the movie and how he perceives every phase in his new life is simply astonishing. The aching experience Ruben goes through demands a real acting talent to make the audience emotionally connected to the protagonist, but Ahmed proved he's not just a talented actor but also one who's in a total command of his craft. For if it's hard to make the viewer feel what his character feels, it's even harder to transport its mental state to the audience. Here, we don't only get the sense of loss and being stripped of everything that forms every inch of Ruben in a flicker, nor only do we only understand his pressing need to regain what he lost—especially since the possibility hovering in the air—but we see him grappling with the dilemma of whether he should continue his journey of adapting to his new condition as if it was the norm or he should keep clutching onto the flicker of hope that definitely wouldn't help in case of it turned out to be a mere mirage. Furthermore, the movie also excels in aspects other than its nuanced portrait of its main character, namely is its exploration of deaf community that truly offers new insights. That's mostly because of the effort shown in the meticulous attention to its essential components, most notably the sign language. However, Paul Raci played a major part in that by portraying the leader of this community and a mentor for Ruben. Through his facial expressions during conversations with Ruben, he delineates the professional duties such an occupation demands. We see him monitoring Ruben's progress and interfering according to his understanding of Ruben's character in particular. As for Olivia Cooke, she further proves she's a remarkable young talent that yet to bloom. Playing Ruben's bandmate and girlfriend Lou, she managed to prove how important she's to Ruben as his most great and precious loss and equally as a great help for him to get a better sense of what he has lost and how to cope with that. The acting clinic these three immense talents put on here left an indelible impression on me, but disregarding the technical quality would make absolutely no sense. Besides the exquisite sound design, the highly-articulate cinematography truly adds up to the experience. If there's only one issue I have about this movie it would be its failure to maintain the same dramatic heft that was in its first half. As the focus on Ruben's progression through his medical recovery and its consequences slightly overpowered the emotional quality, and hence there was a bit of it lost that even the wrap-up failed to fully retrieve. (8.5/10)

By alluding to the history's most nefarious story of betrayal, the title gives away that the movie draws a modern parallel between William O'Neal and Judas Iscariot. In such a risk-taking move that could easily spoil the ending, we can assume that the story here has more than meets the eye. The real significance of the story doesn't lie in its relevance or in the sense of "history repeats itself" per se, but rather in the fact we recognise that. This is what makes it all the more shocking and shameful. With all that being said, the movie itself is quite daring. Hollywood has made quite a few films about The Black Panther Party recently, but the relative dearth—as far as I'm concerned—have tackled the story of life and death of Illinois Black Panther Party chairman Fred Hampton. It is no easy feat, but what's even harder is neither villainising O'Neal's character nor absolving him from culpability. In other words, the movie doesn't take sides when it comes to the two lead characters, portrayed by LaKeith Stanfield and Daniel Kaluuya who gave astounding performances that further cement their status as two of the best actors working today. Stanfield perfected his character's uncertainty to a tee, while Kaluuya showcases his acting chops in full swing whether at his most theaterical or understated moments. However, the movie can be accused of playing it safe storytelling-wise. Apart from the few opening minutes that instantly hooked me, the progression of events couldn't have been more pedestrian. I could feel a blood-boiling energy that has something of Spike Lee about it, but it seems quite repressed because the plot is restrained. Thankfully, the second half let this energy loose, regaining the sense of intrigue the movie has been lacking in except in its stylish moments, and acceletating tension of the plot in the process. Another qualm I have with this is how Mitchell, the FBI agent, tries to convince O'Neal to become an informant literally by saying that the KKK and the Black Panthers are no different. I mean, really? Regardless, this movie is definitely my biggest surprise of 2020, especially since I didn't even have the urge to watch it because the trailer made it feel like one of these style-no-substance movies that are entirely dependent on flaunting their anger to drive home their moral value. (7.5/10)

This is frequently compared with Before Sunrise, and I'm pretty sure Careny viewed Linklater's first installment in his Before trilogy as an inspiration making this little indie gem. Never have I ever thought I would be once again overwhelmed by the same emotions while watching Before Sunrise for the first time, let alone from watching another film. But whilst the conversations and what they offer of random insights of life form the true essence of Linklater's masterpiece, as well as the bulk of his body of work; Carney's propensity to infuse the spirit of music in his movies and his knack for making it find its way across them has never been so palpable, and so prominent, as it is here. Not only is "Guy" and "Girl"'s mutual passion for music the force that draw them together, but it's also their way of communicating their feelings with each other; a language that's more expressive and revealing than either English or Czech. It's one of these movies that have music as an integral part of them so much so they can nearly be classified as Musical films. Bradley Cooper's A Star is Born is a case in point. Correspondingly, the movie channels empathy in all of us, something that's further bolstered by the impactful and raw soundtrack that seems to capture the heart and soul of busking, and the hand-held camera and grainy images that lended a sense of realism to this sensational experience. What held Once back from a higher score is that it seemed that the two leads' consequences of their past loves that hinder their relationship suddenly popped into their minds, as if they've been quite oblivious to them except at some exact point. That's why the denouement feels abrupt to me. Still, Once is quite possibly my new favourite Carney. (8.5/10)

Minari is an equal parts universal and humane family-centric story heartfelt immigrant story that explores the American Dream with effortless sensitivity by emphasising the necessity of strenuous labour to achieve a fulfilling livelihood, all the while emanating wholesome vibes mostly distilled from a sense of childlike wonder. I just hoped it didn't resort to melodrama at the end, as that sort of betrayed its naturalistic approach that kept the movie afloat, in the first place, from succumbing to its conventional plot. (8/10)

It's safe to say I'm out of line with my opinion on this one. But I do think, however, this really had potential that's as luminous as its fantastic glossy pastel colour palette. It's such a shame, though, the movie's handling of its subject matter is extremely heavy-handed. It seems to assume that by merely touching on the social issue in hand would be enough to solve it, something that's misguiding in itself. Moreover, instead of directing its energy at conveying its message, it unapologetically celebratory basks in its perfunctory manifesto without offering any real insights. Still, I believe it really could've been better, given the promising "Dean Walker" subplot in which we could see only a glimpse of the depth this movie, sadly, has forsaken for reveling in its underdeveloped premise with great panache. Props for the superb cinematography and the fact it's an enjoyable watch are due, nonetheless. (4.5/10)

I found Chloé Zhao's sophomore effort, The Rider, a truly poignant authentic and honest portrait of its hero and I was amazed by how its cinematography draws us very close to him in the personal moments not only with its effective close-ups but also by reflecting our main character's feel of emptiness and loss in the gloomy atmosphere that prevails the entire film. However, I honestly struggled to finally get to its brilliant tear-jerking ending, simply because of its deliberate pace that never picks up even when the story demands that. Here, things are evidently different. No doubt Nomadland is a very slow-paced movie, but it has a perfect tone and the movie, consequently, rarely, if ever, drags. A further testament of Chloé Zhao's remarkable artistic maturity, and what I genuinely loved about Nomadland, is the staggering balance it strikes between between everything it tackles from its major themes and main concepts to its minor underling details. Most notably between offering a social commentary that's relevant in the present economic environment and weavering an intricate realistic portrait of the downtrodden, underdogs, forgotten and lost individuals with an almost complete disregard to focusing on a specific social strata. By embracing realism and detaching it from all its oft-affiliated cinematic clichés, Zhao has also managed to walk a tightrope between depicting the "Nomads" life as a salvation for our Fern and her likes and the representing this new lifestyle as a total failure that resulted from a desperate search for belongness. It's true that we see Fern striving to adapt to this new life style with all its rigors and hardships while overcoming her grief in the process, but it's evident that she "belongs" to nature because that's only where she can get the feel of freedom. We see that her conversations with other broken-hearted people alleviate their pain in the sense of "life goes on, anyway", but we barely see them offering a consoling arm around each others' shoulders. Nomadland is poetic achievement that blurs the line between fiction and non-fiction by representing a marginalized people whom we very much recognise but also by making its titular land a realistic fictional haven for people who find their identity by letting their souls roam in the spacious wilderness, all that while serving as a tribute to the travel lovers by merely capturing the ethos of wanderlust. (9/10)

It feels as if the filmmakers behind this movie followed the term "Rom-Com" as literally as possible, only switching the two parts of the acronym together! The first, and better, half of the movie is pure comedy. It's admittedly a bit stretched—considering it serves as a build up for what's to come— and has a couple of jokes that just didn't land. But there's no denying it's the part that garnered the movie a hint of originality to it as well as a dash of heart-warming moments that proved later on how potent—and even essential—they are. Much of the humour emerges from the fish-out-of-water interaction between Prince Akeem and the New Yorkers. So on the surface using that comedic trope in that particular context would make the jokes unbearably clichéd—well, yes and no. Yes because they are clichéd for the most part. No because they ultimately come off as surprisingly refreshing. That was in part due to Landis's decision to make Akeem, as well as his friend Semmi, stick to their character "regal" roots as firmly and seriously as the comedic nature of the story, and the comic charm of the duo, would allow. It's Eddie Murphy who's also responsible for rendering the humour effective, as he was in full control and command of his star power. The second part is where the movie became almost entirely "romance" film. Granted, the transition between "comedy" to "romance" was quite smooth so much so you barely notice, so it's just a matter of lack of consistency as we look at the whole picture. The real problem lies in the fact the movie totally succumbed to the archetype story it tells and followed it by numbers. As a result, I was able to see how it's going to end miles away. The fact that I was invested in every single character and immersed in the goings-on is what compensated a great deal for the story's predictability, and kept the movie afloat for me. I can gladly say that I'm excited an curious to see how the sequel is going to turn out. (8/10)

Like 2016's Fences, Ma Rainey’s Black Bottom is a Viola Davis's starring film adaptation of an August Wilson play. From its limited setting (and by that I refer to the sets as well as the time) and the complete reliance on the dialogue in its storytelling approach, I could easily tell after a couple of minutes into the movie that it was originally a play—for better or worse. Whilst the theatrical nature sometimes managed to render some scenes a musical flavour that proved refreshing and invigorating, they hindered the cinematic form—and in turn experience— and restrained the real power of August's work, preventing it from fully fleshing out. Consequently, we are only able to sense glimpses of the play's dramatic heft. Likewise, the importance of Wilson's message, which can be applied to social and political climate, is blatantly undermined by the movie's lack of cinematic feel. Granted, Davis and Boseman's characters here are formidable driving forces that redeemed many of these shortcomings. Ma Rainey and Levee, played by Davis and Boseman respectively, are like two opposites that share a common purpose. They have some kind of a tumultuous relationship due to a number of reasons, one of them is their different approaches of dealing with white capitalists. Viola Davis further cements her as an actress who is capable of topping herself over and over again. She makes it look easy to just disappear into many different characters or carry a movie with just her bona fide acting. And I believe that her performance as the eponymous character here should garner her an Oscar nod at the very least. That said, she definitely didn't carry this movie single-handedly as the late Chadwick Boseman delivered what might be the finest performance in his short yet diverse career. Interestingly, I believe that his theatrical performance here did actually bolster the emotional side of the story and, by and large, the viewing experience. This is a performance that's indisputably worthy to earn him a posthumous Oscar. (7/10)

God-awful: King of the Monstrosity The cast deserves better than this. Because it's the dynamic between Kyle Chandler, Ken Watanabe and Ziyi Zhang is what made the scenes they share more tolerable despite some atrocious dialogue and unbearably cringe-worthy one-liners. And because Millie Bobby Brown could have single-handedly made the formulaic dramatic arc work if it wasn't for the fact the film went for the action from the get-go and for almost the entire first 40 minutes, which is basically consists of a set of crammed together segments of non-stop action and explosions which are all devoid of the slightest tension. After showing many monsters on screen, for a reason or no reason, to give those who hated Godzilla what they wanted, the plot began to unravel. But the rest of the movie isn't actually any better. As the more the story proceeds, the clearer it appears how superficial and uninspired it is. I liked both Gareth Edwards's Godzilla and Jordan Vogt-Roberts's Kong: Skull Island, so it's not like I can't stand a mindless creature feature, but this is just extremely poorly made. Even the CGI that most people were praising I found quite disappointing. King Ghidorah, in particular, looks so cartoonish. I mean, Disney's Hercules's Hydra looks more realistic! (3/10)

I finally get why people consider Evil Dead II as one of the best and superior film sequels. For as much as I found this one truly innovative in terms of its stylish direction, some ideas, amazing camerawork and fantastic stop-motion animation, claymation and practical effects in general, it's in grave need of more self-awareness to compensate for its great lacking in substance and justify its unbelievably dumb characters. It's still good fun, though. (6/10)

This gritty slice of social realism works both as an exploration of human nature --how essentially egoistic it is but also capable of altruism-- and as a character study of a person on the verge of another nervous breakdown while facing a dilemma. This is also a showcase of Marion Cotillard's undisputed acting prowess. It's great that I share the same birthday date with her :) The Dardenne brothers' use of wide, long shot and handheld camera is simply outstanding. They further add up to the honest and realistic sense of the film. That said, I couldn't help feeling that there's some kind of familiarity because of how schematic the plot seems to be. (8/10)

Gotta admit that I found the archival footage and some preachy dialogue to be very distracting and off-putting for most of the first hour of the movie. Regardless, Da 5 Bloods is, like many other Spike Lee's joints, a helluva powerful movie. Unlike what I've seen by Spike Lee though, this one is truly thought-provoking because it really has a multi-layered narrative that explores a plethora of ideas on a superficial level and also on a substantive one. Plus, this is quite possibly the only movie about Vietnam war that's actually insightful and informative. So, this is quite something, I guess. I really admired that Spike Lee doesn't shy away from revealing uncomfortable truths about the Vietnam war almost as much as he doesn't shy away from showing sudden, and shocking, outbursts of violence and blood. Using variety of aspect ratios and colour correcting techniques were also truly impressive. And oh, the editing, just masterful! What is most astounding to consider about this effort, though, is how brilliantly it is disguised as an adventure film. I mean, this is as entertaining and smart as a decent adventure film can get. So, you don't really have any right to find its two-and-half hour runtime daunting. Last but not least, Delroy Lindo definitely deserves an Oscar for his performance here. His character, Paul, is the type of protagonists that attribute to the story and its messages on almost every level, and Lindo really couldn't have done it more justice. (7.5/10)

There's no other film that has the same emotional heft of The Godfather and the same narrative heft of Citizen Kane as this masterpiece of pure cinema. Additionally, this is Leone at his most ambitious, poetic, mature, stylistically audacious and at his, at least for me, best. I'm just floored, and I feel as if I was missing out on half of cinema!

An almost perfect ode to music, friendship and true feelings. A new all-time favourite, for sure! (9.5/10)

Less than the sum of its parts; cool action scenes, decent performances, interesting characterisations and bits of witty dialogue here and there, but the structure is deeply flawed and messy, and the plot is too convoluted for its own good -- I guess Ritchie thought his film is way smarter than it really is. What really bogged this movie down for me though is Ritchie's persistence to veer away from his early style which he presumably, to some degree, returned to here. I get that he wanted to return to form without making yet another version of Snatch and Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels (both of which I liked, especially the former), but I'm quite not sure whether most of the choices he made here in order to render the film a refreshing feel worked together. Regardless, The Gentlemen is a good fun with enough clever touches to satisfy Ritchie's fans. (6.5/10)

God only knows why it's taken me so long to see this. But God I wanted it to be this kind of movies. I wanted it to be this kind of movies so badly. That's exactly what I needed at this time! (8/10)

"Since I break things, I always buy two." You remember the oddly satisfying scene from Amélie where the titular heroine describes her little pleasures? Delicatessen, as a whole, seems to be the exact opposite of that scene. From its first minutes, we're thrown into a dirty, twisted, decaying universe where everything seems off, discordant and in a total disarray. A universe where the cold water only comes on when you turn the handle for the hot, and vice versa, and where there is a musical saw. Speaking of the musical saw, music seems to be the only thing that can effortlessly produced; hence, it's our only interim comfort in this bizarre, unsettling world. For, in contrast, when it comes to music, all the things, whatever they are, seem to be miraculously harmonious with each other. The outrageously beautiful yellow-drenched cinematography, the close-up shots and camera angles and the post-apocalyptic futuristic setting, all reminded me of Gilliam's Brazil. While the whimsical, childlike feel that pervade the entire film reminded me of Wes Anderson. That said, Jeunet and Caro's vision is one-of-a-kind. For while cannibalism plays a major role in Delicatessen, it's never disturbing and doesn't even have much violence. And while it has an undeniable childlike feel into it —to the point its characters and its overall look are so cartoonish— it's not to told from a child perspective and very mature at its core. "Nobody is entirely evil: it's that circumstances that make them evil, or they don't know they are doing evil." This quote doesn't only apply to a certain character in the film, but I think it sums up the entire film in one way or another. Delicatessen is littered with inexplicable circumstances that seem, at face value, to only lead to sinister ends. However, there are also things in the film that don't seem to fit in with neither its major theme nor the chaotically evil happenings. Yes, the music and the cartoonish vibe. They somehow suggest that everything will be alright in the end: where comes the job for the Australian! The only issue I have, which is sadly a major one, is that the film is too convoluted for its own good. The fact it's intentionally messy —which is a thing I adored about it— didn't help either. Regardless, do yourself a favour and watch it, even if you didn't necessarily like Amélie. "C’est saisissant!" (8.5/10)