lucifer_over_tinseltown

Evan Peters captures the dull, blunted tone and unnervingly icy - I'm here but not really here - mannerisms of Jeff Dahmer. His acting is on another level and much better than all of the others who have played the man, the monster. While watching Evan Peters in this role, I was reminded of another actor, another character, this one fictitious. None other than Jon Heder as Napoleon Dynamite. Which makes me wonder, knowing that Evan, off set, has a mordacious sense of humor, if he channeled Napoleon D just for some inside craps and giggles. Kind of the way he channeled Pacino's Serpico in Mare of Eastown. Aside from Peters' profound, if somewhat, at times, derivative performance, Niecy Nash is special as the nosey (in more ways than one) neighbor - glad she passed on that gift sandwich from Jeff, and Rich Jenkins logs his finest outing since Six Feet Under and/or Step Brothers. I'm glad they showed not only the monstrous side of JD but also the human side. It's important to show the latter in these kinds of shows as it may help with prevention of crime in the future; you know, early warning signs and all. Also, the sets, especially Jeff's apartment, look so real and scuzzy that you may be inclined to take a long Silkwood shower after viewing half an episode. In the end, it is the palpable, oozing eeriness that will get you and haunt you long after you view this.

Perched up and decided to watch this to see the late, great Ray Liotta's final performances. As usual, he exceeded my expectations and went out in a blaze of glory. His Big Jim scenes with Little Jimmy are riveting and emblazon themselves on the mind. The problem is this show is a little too light on Liotta. In the brief scenes he's in, he truly elevates the show. He's always had that sort of continuous intensity, piercing no bs eyes, and a laugh for the ages. Conversely, Egerton drags it down with his stiff acting that grossly lacks tonality or nuance. I suppose the washboard abs got him in the door. It's tough to shoot a gritty show with a polished lens, but hey, they pull it off mostly. It can be unflinchingly real and too close for comfort at times. I was reminded of prison movies I watched with my pop growing up. Movies like Short Eyes and Midnight Express. They scared me straight for dang sure. You won't get so much as a misdemeanor out of me. This filmic show kind of does the same. Especially fine acting by Moafi, Kinnear and Hauser. The darkness, too, can bloom and sing.

I've seen two horror films in the past few weeks that have fully restored my faith in the genre. Ti West's X was one of them, Black Phone is the other. It seems that for the past couple of decades horror has taken a dead end turn and devolved into some kind of homogenized collage art project. One that is incapable of transcending its weak influences or asinine politics. A crude copy and paste job done by a long line of hacks. The Black Phone has a diametrical ring. It has a strong point of view and concept. Joe Hill's source material provided a Kingly starting point. Raw 70s realism that really looks like the 70s offset by surreal bursts of the supernatural. Ethan Hawke brings his own spirited brand of black magic to the proceedings. The most unnerving thing about the Grabber he portrays is how he can go from creepy, soft-spoken, even droll deliveries to blind rage in the binky of a rabbit out of a magician's top hat. He often employs a groomer's tone, which makes it all the more disturbing. Equal parts human and monster, the masks, brilliantly crafted by horror legend Tom Savini, illustrate this duality better than words. Half-clown, half-demon, that aptly sums up Hawke's Grabber. There's a Gacy vibe going on for sure. Duality of nature is addressed throughout with the other characters, too. From the grief-struck, abusive father who looks a bit like Charlie Manson, to the kid actors who exceed all expectations with mint acting. Just like the adults, they go from sweet to cruel, prayer to cuss, in the blink of a shadowed eye. You'll also find a fine surprise with James Ransone's bit part as Max, idiot brother of the Grabber. He provided sorely needed levity during some heavy times. Back to the kids, Mason Thames and Madeleine McGraw are stars in the making. They more than hold up their end of the bargain here. You may want to return to good old rotary phones after watching this, let's just say they serve and protect better than the cellular ones. Anything more would spoil the fun. In ending, the Sinister duumvirate of Hawke & Derrickson, one on the level of say, Kinski & Herzog and/or Lee & Hammer Studios, just did it again. In doing so, they may very well have saved the classic horror genre which was fit to be abducted by a would-be magician in a black van (when I was a kid, they always warned us about blue vans) full of black balloons and never to be seen or heard from again. Imagine a horror movie that is not just horrifying, but strangely compelling and uplifting. A mastery of magic and misery, detail and layer. That's the Black Phone. Black is back and it never looked so bright!

If anything, this spooky little film will make newlyweds feel a whole lot better about their decisions; or maybe not. It's all fun and games until the vacation ends in exsanguination. See Vincent Gallo and his fetching snookum in gay Paris. See Vincent Gallo with an American Psycho-like mouthful of raw crotch meat. See Vincent Gallo dry grind some doughy matron on public transportation while holding an unharmed (Christmas is saved!) puppy. Thank your God that Gallo appears here, without his natural acting abilities and broodingly intense presence, this film would have been a pretentious bust. Like all of Claire Denis' films it lacks overall cohesion in the storytelling and feels deeply disjointed and dislocated. Atmospherically it works in large part, again, due to Gallo's presence. A fine young cannibal with no fear of transmitting Kuru and/or being aptly compared to Armie Hammer (too soon?). Also, bloody good soundtrack provided by the Tindersticks, one of the most monstrously underrated bands of all-time!

A criminally misunderstood and consequently wrongfully maligned film that is ineffably beautiful in its lachrymosity. Artistic vision uncompromised. Anti-Hollywood in the best, most refreshing way possible. Imagine Pasolini directing Two-Lane Blacktop. This minor masterpiece by Gallo provides a challenge to the viewer and requires the kind of patience and investment usually reserved for museums. The complex is made simple here. Mingus said that's a sign of genius. Simply an introspective and existential study of a single character attempting to deal with and possibly survive an emotional cataclysm freighted with operatic grief. Gallo grants the viewer wide open space and ample time to meditate on this, thus allowing the bravest viewer to project into it if it be their will. An opportunity for empathy (remember empathy?) even if it slants towards the ruinous kind. Gallo's portrayal of the bereaved Bud Clay is pure and sincere. His screen presence and brooding intensity brings to mind other underappreciated actors such as Klaus Kinski, Warren Oates, and Bruno S. But what really leaves the indelible impression is his preternatural talent as a director. First evident in abundance in Buffalo 66, it is even more pronounced and in full artistic flourish here. He has a scythe-sharp eye and this innate aesthetic sensibility which is rather alien to most American filmmakers. That's a real gift which finds you, you don't find it. Exquisite framing is present throughout the film. Landscapes that express the mood better than words. Everything here right down to Gallo's choice of film stock and music (it's a real shame he decided not to use his buddy John Frusciante's music which made it onto the soundtrack release, my only gripe with BB) shows the depth of love and consideration given to the making of this film. In concert, these things bring an incredible warmth to a film with its share of stark, harrowing moments. Some of the scenes play like dreams. A testament to Gallo's fastidiousness and exacting vision as a director of the highest degree. Before I ever saw this, I heard so much claptrap about the ending, which by the way is more disturbing than titillating. Hearing about this just added a certain underlying tension and anxiety as I watched it for the first time. Yes, that scene, beautifully lighted and shot as it was, sure played poignant. As do many other scenes like the short, tender one with Cheryl Tiegs and/or the pet shop scene which are also profoundly moving. Repeat viewings of this minor masterpiece of American cinema have proven to be all the more rewarding. That said, due to the patience and investment from the viewer that this film demands, it will always be too abstruse and recondite to be fully understood by the compact majority. Courageous artmaking usually is. Until you boil it down to its essential core and realize the best art makes the personal universal. Or you can just wait for about 300 years or so, and this movie will be treated like a Van Gogh painting. So, if you still believe in MGM endings, it would ill-behoove you to watch this even once. If you are a sequacious lemming looking for that common cliff with your herd (or whatever a group of lemmings is called) it's for the best that you don't watch this. If you have an inbuilt aversion to sincerity and purity, preferring artifice and contrivance, Maybe go and watch an insipid Harmony Korine flick on your dull phone. Better yet, go and watch that irrevocably dumb Jared Leto superhero/villain movie that got like a 2% on that ketchup-grade tomato site. But, if you are a free-thinking, introspective, artistically inclined individual who enjoys solitary refinement that opens up the heart and soul, then this film is essential viewing. Vincent van Gallo, I salute you as the genuine article. Gratitude for providing great, much needed hope for the rapidly vanishing, pretty much obsolescent art of film poetry!

You see, this is a sequel. It seems most reviews missed this. A fresh and respectable one at that. Just don't call it woke, for that would date and degrade its artistry. Yes, Bowie's character appears here. Thomas (Jerome) Newton, played quite well with his spidery William S. Burroughs dead ringer look by Bill Nighy. I'm sure if Bowie were still alive, he'd be appearing here. Nice, classy touch titling each episode after a Bowie tune. Solid acting by the leads, decent cinematography, though not on the sublimely high level of the great Nic Roeg, and dare I say a bit more surface clarity in its storytelling than the movie. I do deeply miss Rip Torn though. I think the brilliant author Walter Tevis, one of the finest and most monstrously underrated sci-fi writers of his generation, would surely endorse this repurposing of his work. It is quite imaginative and inventive. Also, deft use of comedy where you wouldn't necessarily expect it. I expected this interpretation to fall flatly on its face, instead the experience was rather uplifting. Kudos to those responsible. Who doesn't like surprises?

A flashy mashup of Boogie Nights and the Red Hot Chili Peppers' song "Magic Johnson." Contains no real life Lakers, but with the way they've been playing lately this is surely a big time plus. A cornball cornucopia of combovers, silicone, and illegal fun under the Cali sun. Glamour Professionals, for sure. Trippy camera work with more tricks than Sunset Strip. Snappy scripts with whiplash one-liners abound, as does some damn fine acting by both familiar faces and newcomers alike. It's awesome to see the late, great Jack McKinney, one of the NBA's most beautiful minds, finally get some degree of ennoblement. Most folks don't even remember him, though without him the fast break, showtime offense and Lakers Dynasty simply would never have existed. Watch this and pine for the halcyon days when basketball was a fun team sport and not an ungodly blob of bloated egos sliming up otherwise good wood.

Hollow echoes of the pitiful Gigli, but the leading lady is slightly better than J-Lo. The script is just as execrable, as is the so-called acting of the monstrously overrated Ben Affleck (he's OK in comedy roles though: go and watch Mallrats). The direction/photography isn't exactly chopped liver, ergo the 3-star (that's 3 more than Gigli) salute. Still, it staggers the mind that this guy directed one of the greatest psychological thriller/horror films ever made, i.e. Jacob's Ladder. Plus it is a timely reminder that cellular phones are not the benevolent miracle the hoi polloi often treats them like. You know, there was a time when folks said the same thing about asbestos and the internet. Anyway, best to avoid this turkey altogether, unless surface beauty floats your boat.

Like folks who laugh a little too loud at Shakespeare's jokes (the cream-faced loon line never fails to crack me up), this latest rendition just tries way too hard. Cringeworthy overacting by normally reliable actors. Goofily lugubrious at times. Denzel flubs lines. Unheard of. That happens in high school productions. Shameful really. So is the abundance of style out of balance with the soupcon of substance that is offered. Bloody poor in its execution. Out damned spot. Go and watch Polanski's darkly brilliant take from 1971 instead. To be fair, I'd advise Joel Coen to do the same. Foul is just foul here.

Listen, I think Jared Leto is a transcendent, generational talent and all of that jazz. That said, about six minutes into the first episode I started feeling a queasy sense of familiarity with the character he was portraying/persona he was channeling. It wasn't Adam Neumann, whom Leto is a half a foot shorter than, either. Nor was it Alfred E. Neuman. Nope, Leto in this role is a spot on, dead ringer for none other than Tommy Wiseau's "Johnny" in the infamous, often odious film "The Room." He must have really been studying him. I think Tommy may have him dead to rights on gimmick infringement. Leto can be a bit of a prankster. Still a solid portrayal, just of the wrong dude. Hathaway has some presence here, too. Her acting is on the level of Gwyneth Paltrow's. All in all, I found the show to be a trenchant, often entertaining, wholly excoriating analysis of narcissism and avarice. George Carlin's quote about the American Dream quickly comes to mind, i.e. You have to be asleep to still believe in it.

It was worth sitting through the first two episodes mostly for Annie's performance. Her character being antithetical to the one she plays on Schitt's Creek. I can dig the range. She has a natural way of brightening the now. The morbidly corpulent Aaron Rodgers looking schlub Kevin is insufferable, but that's what he's supposed to be, ergo the invective spiked title. I guess hackneyed sitcom tropes with their glammed down yet still somehow participation trophy-esque wives and beer-belch vulgarian, easy target husbands lend themselves to parody well. The calculated canned laughter during the Kevin scenes is a devilishly clever touch and creates a cool tonality and contrast with its sudden absence during Allison alone time scenes (which, ironically, are often far more hilarious). The Masshole accents go well with the mentions of Alcoholic sno-cones, Wade Boggs rookie card, and other platitudinous pearls of dialogue. Speaking of, the writing is dumbed down by considerable degrees purposefully, which makes this a much different species of sitcom. Usually it is unintentional. Too many examples to name in a short-ish review. This one possesses the power to laugh at itself; a sharp mind's eye view. The show has telegraphed where it is going, at least I think so, but I hope for surprises and look forward to being invalidated. For now it's a soft 7.

Captures a self-made American icon at the height of his sybaritic splendor without ignoring his fatal flaws. The show, too, captures the pre-Aids, Dionysian zeitgeist with style you can see from miles away. Pretty from a distance. Ominous as it comes closer. There's a dark energy, an undercurrent of sorts below the show's glamorous surface. Perhaps this comes from the knowledge of Halston's untimely demise. So the glitz and grime are combined inside the same scene which makes for an often volatile and surprising experience. It's hard to look away once you lock eyes with this sexy beast. Ewan McGregor gives a masterclass in acting. The show is worth watching just to behold him transfigure into Halston. Krysta Rodriguez is some revelation as Liza as well. She steals more than a few scenes and her chemistry with McGregor is nothing short of a sublime symbiosis. However, the ridiculously lubricious John Oates doppelganger that is Gian Franco Rodriguez as the man-eating Victor Hugo drags some scenes down into a sub-sewer ooze that will have you taking a power hose shower post episode. For that, and all of the chain smoking which made me feel like an emphysematic cowboy by proxy covered in a grody sheen of nicotine, I had to shed a few stars.

First drawn in like chin to violin by what I though was Sid Haig spookily chanting DEER with an oleaginous face in succulent darkness. That was just the trailer. Glad I watched. Tight, tense, atmospheric masterpiece of Lovecraftian sci-fi/horror. Blood & gut hounds go look elsewhere (wherever that is), as this one requires a fecund imagination and patience with pacing. So that wasn't Sid, he's long gone. But his doppelganger stole many a scene here. Acting is solid throughout. Superb balance between realistic, domesticated interior scenes and mesmeric exterior scenes. Slick camera work. Profound use of sound. Sensible mentions of proven conspiracy theories (Montauk, in particular, comes to mind, often. Proximity maybe). Hey Rhode Island has always been an eerie, if scenic, little patch on the map. Right? I was reminded of shore house nights in NJ when I was a kid. What lightning would do to sand. The nightmares were more vivid there. Man, at work or on vacation, is the scariest monster of all. Beware of wind farms! Duplass Bros. Lookout! The McManus Bros. & Sis are hot on your heels and just gained more traction!

Gacy ostensibly voiced by Mel Blanc. Once you get past that, it is an eerily engaging doc done better than the recent Bundy or Ramirez docs from NetFlops. I enjoyed the interviews with the hardboiled detectives; firm-nerved storytellers and straight shooters that come across as characters from those great James Ellroy novels.

If they fooled Terry Crews, they can fool you, too! That explains the bad reviews. Men be living in fear!

Essentially every cheap, sleazy, risibly written Andy Sidaris flick from the 80s boiled down into yet another execrable Netflix series. Sidaris with a Spanish slant set in a new century. That's pretty much it. This makes Pina's White Lines look like masterpiece. Inhale that one instead. At least it has half a brain.

Pay close attention to Wesphael's hand signs and gestures during his self-indulgent, long-winded interview. He smoothly transitions from the triple 6 OK sign to another Luciferian sign, namely the baphomet. Shortly after that, he flashes the Masonic distress sign twice for emphasis. All the while babbling incessantly...he is a politician after all. I fully expected his head to roll off of his shoulders. That would have surely broken the monotony and tediousness of his monologue(s). I bring the hand signs up because Veronique died on Halloween -- a major occult holiday. I reckon she was a sacrifice. Wesphael claims to be atheist, but that's a common cover. Many of these high powered politicians have made dark pacts. Look no further than Bohemian Grove. Liars tend to say too much and this cad never shuts up. He also has a habit of saying things twice. The age old adage, "born in vice, say it twice," comes to mind. I'd rate this three 6s if IMDB would let me. It is engaging in an eerie kind of way in those rare moments when Wesphael isn't yapping about how handsome he is (cool sinister eyebrows for sure! He kind of looks like American Bandstand's Dick Clark's evil twin!). Impossible humor abounds and illustrates how the truth is often stranger than fiction when we learn that Wesphael was being cuckolded by a gent with the actual surname De Cock!? The real treat here is Wesphael's stunning daughter Saphia, who is a stone fox. Sadly she sees scant camera time, as her father hogs up most of the close-ups. The security cam footage is quite chilling and probably the best part. Seeing Veronique all beautiful and bubbling over with life mere hours before her untimely death. Tragic stuff. I don't remember if it was Nietzsche or Camus who said this, and I paraphrase, speaking much about one's self can be a way of concealing one's self.

If you are hungry for entertainment while in proverbial Netflix & Chill mode, don't come here, you'll only be served an empty plate. No extravagance is spared with set, wardrobe, or vehicles, but script and acting falls flat onto its face in that mouse gray space between Lifetime Movie Network (with more nudity) and Cinemax After Hours (with less nudity). A slack, pathologically unimaginative, non-Hitchcockian snoozer of the lowest order. Greer Grammer fortunately doesn't take after her father in the looks department, as she is the only fresh, fetching face you'll find here; unfortunately she doesn't take after him in the acting department either. She seems overly surprised, like she was just goosed, in most scenes. Sapphic picnic in the dead, khaki weeds by a river. A punctured tire wheezes. Lazy framing. Why? An inconsequential child plays a quick flute solo and fails to propel the plot. San Francisco in a Santa Fe soap bubble? Several grotesque shots of a somnolent, snake-skinned Kristin Davis (who plays a monosyllabic writer?!) smoking cigars. Why? Speaking of gross, Shameless Dermot Mulroney (I'm constantly confusing him with Dylan McDermott, though the latter can act some) gets some impromptu, much needed liposuction in one of the unintentionally funnier scenes. There is no mystery, everything is telegraphed and spoiled early on. Like who didn't know the killer would be female after a good scissoring? Shanola Hampton (also of Shameless fame) is the only actor who decided to show up. At least she knows shoot from, well, Shinola! Netflix hits a new nadir. As the existentialists say, life really begins when you hit rock bottom. It's no illusion that this one was dead on arrival.

Either an immediate cure for chronic insomnia or an efficacious inducer of acute narcolepsy; possibly both. Watch Amazon's Upload instead. Similar theme, but less hackneyed script and superior acting.

So I had limbo stick low expectations going into this film. Watching Cronenberg the Younger's first feature film AntiViral was not unlike listening to Leonard Cohen's son's first album. A profound disappointment. The queasiness that comes from suspected nepotism.

Then came this film Possessor. Like most of the great Tarkovsky films, it starts somewhat dull and slow by design. Then, right when you are ready to look away, drop your guard, maybe check the tiny screen on that so called smart phone you are obsessed with, it strikes with a hideous ferocity and tangible poetry. Freeze any frame and you'll find what could be a richly colorful painting and/or a Luscher psych test. You get Stendhaled inside alive. Sewn into the scenes. It will affect your heartbeat and breathing. The story is seamless. It is also cerebral and challenging. It demands attention and participation from the viewer. In its more sudden horrifying scenes I was sort of reminded of Cronenberg the Elder, who also had a way of making the darkness bloom and sing. Though in the majority of the artful, languidly paced scenes Tarkovsky constantly came to mind. Solaris and Stalker specifically. Remember only the boring get bored, and there is far too much happening, way too much visual stimulation for that to go down here. This is the first masterpiece created by any Cronenberg in a good while. I'm convinced Cronenberg the Younger shares a consanguinity with the genius film poet Tarkovsky. He should take one of those DNA ancestry tests. Anyway, best sci-fi/horror film I have seen since Under the Skin. I'm going in for a second viewing...right...now...

I've always preferred Japanese existentialism to French existentialism. This film dwells more in the latter, but the execution is to die for. An incisive meditation on alcoholism, herd mentality, isolationism, individuality, solipsism, and the ebb and flow of life's absurdity. Themes of sexual frustration also abound, hence the oft-mentioned horn(s). All of this heavy stuff is masterfully leavened with feather to nose doses of well-timed humor. Zero Mostel was a comedic genius and his "transmogrification" into a rhinoceros is one of his greatest performances and also one of his most hilarious. It gave me paroxysms of gale-force laughter. Karen Black was naturally kooky as ever and it really worked well with the palpably absurd material and lines she was fed. Wilder was wildly inconsistent as usual, often annoying and endearing in the same scene. Let's remember what Wilde said about consistency though, it is the last refuge of the unimaginative. Though I believe Wilder was channeling Sartre's epigram of Hell is other people here. In any event, more like a Hippo than a Rhino, he brings specific gravity to the proceedings, though very little gravitas; Mostel more than makes up for Wilder's shortcomings though. If only he were utilized in more scenes. Listen closely and you may catch the name Eugene Ionesco dropped in the dialogue (what a self-congratulatory dandy!). Still, it's one of those films you'll surely get a charge out of. Hard to find, but worth the search.

Kicked the can and triggered memories of my own catholic school daze in a rush and a flush. Back in the days when the only play at recess was: go out long. I remember loving the girl's uniforms; especially the ones for gym class. The way I'd always feel hormonally pensive during morning mass. How Jesus' wounds looked so feminine up there on that splintery cross. The stained glass for a stained class scarlet-lettered by original sin. So glad I deprogrammed myself soon after graduation. I digress.

Considering that the majority of this film's cast was in fact composed mostly of newcomers, I think they pulled it off. No, it's not as glossy or lachrymose as the Virgin Suicides, or as cracked out wacky as Take Shelter, two I'd compare it to, if only on a thematic and atmospheric level. Yes, there are a handful of half-daft moments (mostly offered up by the ancillary and tertiary characters, overuse of trans-fat yellow hues and some very poor framing) but these are overshadowed by solid, emotive performances by the father and three sisters. Belle, in particular, is incandescent and has the kind of on screen presence that makes you take pause. Hell's Belle in that Devil's costume would make even Dante blush. She's her own inferno. Dug the way the family's dull home is sort of the objective correlative of a Christian psalm about the meek inheriting the Earth. Deeply dug the rapture imagery, the father's hypocritical self-deceit manifested in recurring battles with bottles, the dueling themes of escape, and the well-timed/executed tragic flashback scenes, too. The televangelist Peltz was spot on realistic with the old compensate for my lack of sincerity with avarice-fueled charisma. He had the swagger of a young Jimmy Swaggart. I also loved the haunting soundtrack/score. The spectral vocals reminded me a little bit of the creepy nuns singing some of the darker hymns from back in the day (Under the Weight of the Wood comes to mind). The at times dirge-like music complimented the languid pacing of the film, not unlike the watery church wine used to do for that dry paper wafer during communion. Amen!

This is a polarizing one. I can understand why. Many will care an awful lot and say it is blindingly brilliant, much like Rosamund Pike's big, creepy smile (which is constantly on display in this movie). Many others will not care a crap's worth and say this one is yet another turgid turkey from hipster writer/director J Blakeson. For me, the truth lies somewhere in between. I suppose it does go too long and could use a good 20 minutes or so of scalpel-sharp editing. I know Pike received all of the accolades, but she was completely out acted and outshined by Eiza Gonzalez (reminiscent of a young, less witchy Asia Argento), Chris Messina and the always phenomenal Dianne Wiest. Gonzalez, in particular, was truly a luscious-lipped/hipped revelation. It was good seeing Dinklage in something half-way decent again, too. He balances his Lilliputian stature with Brobdingnagian talent. This film was highly publicized as a lesbian thriller, which is kind of reductive. Sure, there are a few brief, artful depictions of this, but nothing hot and heavy. Also, I think more than a few negative reviews are due to a strong female lead; and Pike is a powerhouse here. She's got a brass set. This tends to intimidate beta men who masquerade as alphas. Sheep as wolves. It's 2021...get over it, bra!

Almost gave up after the 1st episode. Tip toed into the 2nd with some trepidation. Kind of struck me early on as soapy and Eastenders-ish. Eve Hewson (Bono's daughter, not Sonny, the other one) caught my eye and held it captive for a while. She seems lit from within. High wattage. Plus she's got the acting chops. Really can't stand Tom Bateman who sounds like he's drunkenly slurring his lines through a mouthful of haggis. Needed to engage the subtitle option due to his unintelligibility. Patrick Bateman would have been a more welcomed choice. Or maybe Jason? Simona Brown and Rob Aramayo were medallion level in their roles, too. The kid who played Simona's son was awful though. Anyway, excellent blindside twists, actual twists, and not many shows can pull off astral projection and transfiguration with such style and odd believability. This I dug deeply. Well worth sticking with, even if the first couple episodes, that uncharismatic kid, and Tom Bateman are pretty rubbish.

The most entertaining parts here are clips culled from some of Woody's best films. Kind of surprised a rather incriminating, quite lubricious line from Bananas didn't make the cut though. It surely would have advanced the agenda of the filmmakers. Somebody didn't do their homework. The documentary itself, sans the substance of Woody's work, tends to move in pained, purple circles. A one-armed oarsman. A one-winged crow. And on and on. Exercises in futility. Imagine sculpting a statue of the world's fastest man. Ask yourself, why? That stated, it made me want to watch a lot (my favorite number) of Woody's films again; regardless of the age of the muse(s). I, too, felt inclined to watch Rosemary's Baby and a couple of episodes of Peyton Place again, as well. I guess Woody said it best, Life doesn't imitate art, it imitates bad television. Hear! Hear!