#movietalk

[whatether]

the substance would make an INCREDIBLE play!!! the emotions r INTENSE, theres INSANE practical fx potential, + 2 actresses for e & s tagging in and out imagine buckets & buckets of dessicated shrimp shells & empty casings suffocating the audience i want this soooo bad

[charlie-grusin]

"The Haunted Mask" (1995) : Movietalk # 02

“The Haunted Mask” is the story of a girl so tormented by her peers she neglects the true loves of her life and kills herself. She parades her severed head out on the streets as she allows herself to become a different beast – a being of malicious mischief with a greater urge for destruction from within and without – only to then renounce that creature persona from reality, embracing instead the one who could ever love back. It’s a suburban gothic survivor story with an ending you can expect from good ol’ Jovial Bob, that finest trick-meister of the horror trade (besides, it’s Halloween – what could go wrong with a hearty laugh?).

Kathryn Long is a force to be reckoned with. Where else could one find a performance so involved at such a young age that not only goes for long stretches of time waging havoc with throat-crushing gremlin voices and latex running deep in the eyelids but who also suggests (no, insists!) on eating live worm sandwiches not once, nor twice, but on eight-to-twelve takes? (Not even How to Eat Fried Worms could claim that!!) But what Long was able to achieve was not made solely on high theatrics: it’s like she really lived Carly Beth, pushing Stine’s original tale further towards its truth-inside-the-lie that as you want to reach through the screen and hold her and comfort her and reassure her that this too shall pass, you can’t help but get the feeling that you could also be her in those moments of vulnerability – that perhaps you were once Carly Beth… or that you are still very much the seemingly lonesome little girl lost in that hallway house of mirrors – that you can’t help but cringe and squirm whenever the monster takes full control because if experience has taught us anything it’s that it really is all too easy to make the inversion of the self and turn vile from the hurt and/or the fear of being hurt. It’s all too close, all too familiar… and it’s all the more reason she should be inducted to the Child Horror Star Hall of Fame pronto if such a thing is christened.

Every now and then it’s imperative that a Goosebumps story (or anything adjacent to that) must include in some form or another a creepy shopkeeper and/or salesman, and while the “Tall Thin Man” definitely matches the head on the bill it is not with the touch of the usual; the role as written by José Rivera and delivered by Colin Fox give this character a menace all the more heightened by the fact that it is ultimately a tragic one (he is a man doomed by admission to repetitively shred himself down to the marrows of his darkened soul), yet that isn’t to say director Timothy Bond didn’t manage to invoke any of that unbearable weight on his behalf; even with the occasionally shaky production levels the series offered as its norm, it’s quite impressive he still managed to bring his A game to TV movie cinematic heights as it is surprising he only did like, what, three two-parters(!?) – you gotta love that slow pan to the face in the mirror, that inspection of the abnormous skin devoid of music: “Very soon it will join the other failures on the shelf!” – and with much lighter affairs such as the “Monster Blood” special (which had compromised the series’ inability to adapt the other Bert I. Gordon-esque escapades of that green viscous substance with a mini-Airport movie on the fly), I can’t help but find it possible that Bond and crew may’ve also single-handedly spoiled the lot of us just by how (dare I say it) elevated their efforts seem in comparison. Episodes like “The Girl Who Cried Monster” or “The Haunted House Game” or even some of the other two-or-three-parters still hold up to this day on their own merits, of course… but damn. Damn.

Most Goosebumps stories are pure three-pages-a-thrill adventures where the monsters are either some big bad and hungry goop monster, a mummy, or “hey what if lawn gnomes were kinda bastards you know”, but when they getcha like this they getcha good. Viewer, listener, reader beware, you’re in for more than a scare.

[themovieguys]

We watched PATRIOT GAMES last night forgetting what a full-on, check-all-the-boxes, greatest hits of Harrison Ford awesomeness it is! After PRESUMED INNOCENT & REGARDING HENRY, this was a movie full of everything you love about Ford and everything he can do. We'll talk about it on the show May 1st! TheMovieGuys.net #TheMovieGuys #comedy #movietalk #opinions #movies #movieguys #hollywood #entertainment #commentary #cinema #filmmaking #PaulPreston #podcasts #flicks #filmbuff #films #cinephile #moviepodcast #movienews #celebrityinterviews #moviereviews #PatriotGames #HarrisonFord #TheFordFiesta #PresumedInnocent #RegardingHenry https://www.instagram.com/p/CrW8DfbPLtO/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[gerimi]

🎬 Movie reboots & Sequels Talk while DRAWING!

Hanging out, Digitally painting, and chatting about film franchises like Alien, Predator, & Jurassic Park.

[charlie-grusin]

I can’t help but wonder if there wasn’t some precedent to this settled as far back as Indiana Jones: the first two films pretty much followed up to the ambitions Spielberg had had in making his own James Bond, but once we got to The Last Crusade we started to see Indy procure some personal growth as a character, discovering there was more to life than artifacts and that there was more at stake than the preservation of history from those stinkin’ Nazis (that being, well, life; human documents; the living present). It was a complete far cry from what was typically the norm for most pulp/pulp-inspired heroes and that was the intention - this, after all, was meant to be a last great hurrah for Dr. Jones from Spielberg and Lucas, who at that point felt it was time to give rest to their brash little character of high adventure - yet it also became a problem whenever it was inevitably decided that Indy should return: there was this obligation that only S&L could be in charge of sailing the ship, that only Harrison Ford could play Indiana Jones because he has become so recognizable, so defined as a character from the last time, that any other face or voice to that name would be thought of as blasphemous.* They could give the Indy character as many adventures and scenarios as they wanted in tie-in books, comics, video games and what have yous (and they certainly have), but when it came to the films themselves they eventually couldn’t keep hold of that luxury - it also didn’t help how heated (ha) in controversy Temple of Doom became on its release with its over-the-top violence but still - as long as Spielberg, Lucas & Ford were deeply involved with the series they had no choice but to further age out the character, to mellow out its edges, to repeat those same notes of hurrah like a stuck vinyl record before it became too depressing to play. There was a bit of a tease near the end of Crystal Skull that perhaps Mutt could become a new star hero with his own set trajectory, but they not only since neglected to follow along that thread they also literally killed it off by having Mutt killed off-screen in Vietnam; unless they decide to really revitalize the series (like, I don’t know, maybe give Alden Ehrenreich a call back?) then it will either stay on the flatlines or worse, it will eventually find a few inches more to grind itself and everyone else away - what we are seeing now with the MCU, essentially, is that Indy stagnation being shifted over to maximum overdrive, powered not by the changing tides of its head creators but by a relentless churning corporate meat machine with a grind-em-till-you-drop mentality.

I was quite amused by the whole RDJ as Dr. Doom reveal as a moderate outsider looking in: it’s very much a cry of desperation but it’s also such an outlandish idea that I bet a lot of people are gonna latch onto it anyways in the same manner a train wreck involving nuclear materials can’t help but be seen (of which I may cry myself guilty on that charge). Then when I thought about it (about that feeling in particular) it was like, Well of course - Marvel Studios is pulling the same old schtick Lucasfilm had done with bringing Emperor Papaltine back for The Rise of Skywalker, complete with bringing along the same array of directors who have recently made Disney some strong bank! Abrams might as well start inviting the Russos over to some clubs at this point

It’s absolute damage control; they’re starting to see the smoke that’s been building up since 2019 and they’re willing to pull anything but the stops to stop it. That 2026 release date feels like it’s only delaying the inevitable.

* I don’t know exactly how inclined British pop culture is to maintaining a kind of spiritual status quo - I can only make vague hints and gestures, and because I’m an American who hasn’t traveled as far around the world as Florida I’m likely dead wrong on all of them - but considering how willing the British side has been with giving new faces and identities to the likes of The Doctor, James Bond, even Sherlock Holmes, and how we aren’t, I can’t help but get the feeling that (amongst other things) we have made our pop culture too religiously sanctified. No wonder we brew so many cults.

obviously there are a bunch of issues with the MCU and I'm not gonna sit here and try to convince everyone that MCU movies are cinema or whatever so don't get what I'm gonna say twisted. I do find their kinda mainstay in cultural media and the dominance they had to be interesting, especially now in an era where the MCU is undeniably falling off and struggling. just as like a cultural analysis I find that interesting and everyone has their opinions of why it happened.

my opinion/theory on why the MCU just crashed is because they sort of forgot what it means to be telling a comic book story, especially a marvel comic book story. Because I've read thousands of issues of various marvel series at this point, across tons of different eras and events, and the thing that makes them last (which is also a thing that drives me personally crazy and I hate so much) is that the status quo doesn't really change. Or when it does, it lasts for a few arcs or years at most and then gets reverted back to the norm eventually. Like the fact that everything is pointless and nothing is a risk is something I loathe, but it is admittedly what keeps them going. If someone just got into comics, they can pick up a modern issue and expect to find Spider-man or Captain America or whoever. They may be introduced to new characters, but the big ones will show up eventually.

And after the last Avengers movie, like half of the mainstay cast are just gone. Which as someone who likes good stories, I think is a good opportunity (which is arguably being wasted but idk I haven't watched any MCU thing in years) to actually shake things up and develop characters that mainstream people are less familiar with and give them a chance to shine and tell interesting stories. But that's not why people like marvel comics.

People like marvel comics because if they want to read about Iron Man, they can pick up any random issue about Iron Man and it will most likely be the Iron Man they know. People like the status quo, and Marvel has never been high literature and has always basically been pulp storytelling, and it gave people status quo and familiarity. And I think Marvel Studios figured this out waaayyy too late.

Because if Marvel actually understood what people like about the comics, they would have embraced recasting major roles from the start. They wouldn't have tied characters' identities so strongly to their actors and would have made it clear that characters can and will continue on with different faces. There is no reason why Tony Stark needs to be RDJ or Steve Rogers needs to be Chris Evans. They would have had plans to not write these characters out of existance the second actors wanted to exit or died or were fired or any of the various reason why actors are no longer involved with the MCU. Hell they had precedent. They didn't have a problem replacing Terrence Howard with Don Cheadle, who are very different looking people who give very different performances, but we know why they felt ok with that recasting but won't recast any of their boys named Chris...

Anyway it seems like they realized that general audiences don't actually like change if its permanent and are learning the wrong lessons with the Doom casting nonsense and the fact that they seem to keep changing what the new story is to fit what they think audiences want.

I'm fine with the MCU dying off and its probably better for media that it does, but again I'm just kinda interested in the fumble from like an objective standpoint because it seemed like they just locked themselves into eventual failure in such a stupid way. Like they could have told the same safe representative Avengers storylines for decades and wouldn't have a meltdown every time an actor in a major role needed to be removed from production if they just accepted that people would be recast as needed. It would be worse for actors and it would be worse for movies in general probably, but it would have kept the MCU churning out pulp like the comics do to this day. But now people are realizing its not just pulp but pulp they don't want and its gonna kill the MCU eventually.

[itsparanoiaa]

they should film like almost all live action anime’s in the style of scott pilgrim bc now i’m realizing a lot of them lack the chaotic silly ness

[cinemasickness]

New video now up at www.YouTube.com/CinemaSickness #Thrifting #Thrifter #MovieCollector #MovieCollecting #Reselling #Reseller #Movies #MovieTalk #MovieCollectors https://www.instagram.com/p/Clz6zBzsWgP/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[cat-brrr]

They are on da date

[unitedcba]

Easily the most underrated movie of this year and one of the best from Netflix! 👌🍿

[takanuru]

Coconut Daddy Show Con Drama And Endgame Discussion Spoiler Free Featuri...

[anycapture91]

Rewatch Bengali Movie Madam Fuli (ম্যাডাম ফুলি) | Women's Day Special Ep...

[whatether]

men across from me laughing at monstrous elisuebeth while im crying my eyes out

[charlie-grusin]

IT (2017) : Movietalk # 03

With or without a god we are all children – it’s only in the coziness of patterns and routines, the wear and tear of time that makes us assume otherwise that we have grown up, that we have become the adults through the ability to withstand the monotonous mundanity of the real world as so opposed by it. But we do not grow so much as we experience; and we do not change or transform so much as we only shift further towards our truer, greater selves. All it takes – if it can be believed – is a thin resonance, a revelation of the self that is at once demolition and renewal: a toppling of dominoes which finds at its end not a full-scale collapse but a newly-christened bridge, a sudden elapse between the once-impenetrable points of what-once-was and the here-and-now that all at once “creates” before our eyes (then, in a more reasonable understanding after the fact, reveals) the roots of our lives from the inside out. We do not see our schedules, for these are material and therefore immaterial; we see instead our very own inner patterns – our own array of patch-and-stitches we have either caught, earned, or made on ourselves in the days of youth – and how these fabrics and colors, in one way or another, have intercepted, overlapped, and/or taken over our lives in the past and the now without our very knowing. They are little apocalypses with their own five stages, and more often than not they are terrifying. And all it takes is but a drop – a slim, singular, yet altogether complete and pure emotion with the gut-punch of nitroglycerin. Worry... lonesomeness… doubt… they are but a few of the boiling triggers, and they are also branches to that most reactant of personal tides: fear.

2017 was not just the Inevitable Return of the Stephen King Flick, it was also the Year of IT, and my slightly younger, much dumber self had rode on its frontlines like a storm. I read the book whilst trailing away from a nasty sick spell that just so happened to be the sweet little nook of time before the cranks in Movieworld really started churning out the clown bucks, and once I had caught its developing whiffs I kept my eyes and ears on the headlines over that thin span of years, making only light utterances in my company of friends whose only point of reference was the Tim Curry miniseries (yes it’s that movie but this is not a remake it’s a new adaptation of the book have you read it have you read the book IT??). I don’t think I ever spouted any further words about IT back then, even as the project shifted hands from Fukunaga to Muschietti and the tides were starting to be reassured – for all I knew it was a territory known to by me and me alone, a world as strange and exciting as it was when I’d cracked my very first King (and Straub, RIP) back in middle school and just as impossible to put into words (what would I’ve said if any of my teachers and classmates caught in this ailing red state had asked me about what I was reading, not knowing I was deep in the part in The Talisman where Jack’s friend Wolf had gotten the nards to murder a bunch of Evangelical fascist children and was loving every word of it?) – but it turned out I didn’t have to wait for long; once that first trailer came out it was all that any of us could think about – talk about, even. In my circle I was IT’s finest cheerleader, affecting them with accursed knowledge of American literature’s finest, greatest, ever-unsurpassed, ever-imitated-but-never-duplicated novel of love and monsters.

When IT (2017) came out I had no good way of selling my parents to take me to watch it – even though they had given up on shielding me away from reading any “mature” books (let alone King’s) a long time ago and the very first film I ever saw was fuckin’ Commando, them taking me to an R-rated film that prominently featured the premise of monsters killing children still didn’t seem such an easy ask; I saw all three Hobbit films when they were first released and what somehow dreaded me more than having to walk out of that theater with two-and-a-half hours spent watching The Battle of the Five Armies was to hear another agonizing spiel about God and Jesus and the Coming of the Rapture and Tribulation and the Book of Revelations on the long ride back. I admire them. I still do. But I hated that, loathed it – if that was the ride home I could expect from three hours of stupid over-bloated Tolkien shit, what would horses do with a real love?

Fortunately, I had a friend. They had gone to see it opening weekend and loved it so much they were aching to see it again. When I told them I hadn’t seen it despite being IT’s amateur oracle they had offered to take me with them on a late October night. How could I refuse?

Up to now I had ever only believed I’d gone on a single date with someone from school. It was a date with a love as everlasting as an obligatory prom invite on a crumpled slip of notebook paper. We’d gone to dinner, we’d gone to a movie, and even though it was a double date with some close friends of ours it was still by the end of the night an uncomfortable, awkward experience. Part of it was no doubt a slipping across that veil from the young adult to the adult – we were starting to push against each other beyond the restrictive confines of school toward territories never before embarked upon – but now I have no doubt it was a personal trouble, a question so vague even its mark was left unfinished, a river without an end. It was a love with endless pairs of eyes staring at it from every possible angle belonging to faces more familiar than unfamiliar, observant while their backs were turned, glazed with an expectation that was ultimately honed to a final premeditated result which had seemed at first no different than the systems we were already being churned through until you realize in a momentous flash of precognition (an intake of terror) that this time it could go on and on and on and on. We were going to be sweethearts; we were going to be pure, natural; an easily discernible match of inner-clique love that had to stick because it had to stick, it must, and there was no other way around it, it was just that inevitable. One of my parents had mentioned it to a neighbor friend of ours when I got back; he had joked about me being a bachelor, a playboy. I’d laughed with them (just as expected) then I took solitude in my bed to meditate myself to sleep on the hatred I felt for everybody, for myself.

Then I willed its disintegration. It was static. Silent. A meanness, yet numbing enough you theoretically hardly felt it ever happened as if whatever occurred there and then hadn’t ever been at all... yet you could feel its dusts collect to thickets in your nose, its last mysterious jolts of convulsion bristle against the tongue to the brain all the same. We had walked away in debris unaccounted for, not a word more between us. I would wonder, then dare not wonder no more, either afraid to acknowledge the cruelty I was able to manifest or the source of the brutality that laid beneath it all.

But that night. I wonder if there could’ve been something I missed in the mix of our talk and laughter on the way to the theater, in the beats of every squirm and jump the movie managed to get out of us from the back row seats, in midst of all the breathless talk on the drive back that was admittedly made more on my front (as cheerleader I am prone to the asthmatic). I don’t know – only that it can’t help but be a one-sided affair, that even if I were to delve further I cannot ever find a temporary answer or an overall glimpse of that night and our relationship anymore because it is by all accounts too late. You know how it goes – the great exodus of the senior class where we drift away to seek our own corners of the world to such an extent that we first begin to forget those who we only knew mildly at a distance, only to then (though we might attempt its delay) lose touch with the ones we knew more dearly. But ours had been the most distorted and the most sudden, an abrupt separation, all before coming back around not to bitterness (at least I don’t think – I don’t want to think it) but to a flat-line that had no choice but to dissipate the way it did to nothingness. Perhaps it was karmic. I don’t know. Maybe I don’t ever want to know that either even if such a resolution could very well be the most helpful comforting thing whatever it could possibly be. We were supposed to celebrate together, but as soon as we had tossed our caps and shot our concealed confetti cannons he’d ran off to join a party the rest of us had no knowing of. Though some of us might’ve talked – must’ve talked – I never knew the rest. Our next goodbye (the last goodbye) never even felt like a goodbye, least not at first, but as the get-together dwindled away into the evening and as I breathed the birthday cupcake vape smoke that was as alien to me as this strange cubicle-carved apartment with the single dying lamp tucked in the corner I had known it was. And yet in the midst of this own quiet revelation, as I look not in that moment but in the ones from farther back from that scattered gallery of occasional triumphs and resentments I cannot help but want to reach in (reach through) for something, anything. Maybe I want to go back to that night – the most ecstatic I ever felt going to a movie theater – and really talk to them (to hell with the movie), talk to them and ask them and understand them and know them if I can (and this time I really have to listen because there’s no notes to take this time) if they really really knew what it meant when that skinhead-looking motherfucker had posed whether or not we had something for each other while the teacher was off-and-about doing everything and nothing about it and why that now seems to me so close to the opening of Jack Ketchum’s The Lost where the two women sharing this uneasy warmth for each other they could never proclaim are silenced in cold blood by a gun-toting psychopathic youngster, why the first thought I had then was thought of in the delivery of Norm Macdonald on the Weekend Update: “I’m gonna tell ya that is some bad luck when the one who would’ve known you kills you.” So the river goes.

The music is IT’s enemy; same as it ever was. I knew on this rewatch to steel myself against it but damn, right out of the gate? It’s kinda like how these adaptations have opted to let poor Georgie’s arm get bitten off rather than have it be the much crueler fate he gets in the book where Pennywise straight up rrrrrrips this six year old kid’s arm clean off the bone like an insect, but perhaps even that isn’t such a fair comparison – there at least the point of disturbance fairly stayed the same. With Wallfisch’s scoring however there is often an uncomfortable vastness between its good intentions and its end results to a point where you’re supposed to be watching this opening scene that’s meant to be tragic and terrible and all that good nasty horror business but the music it’s hitting you with is going so far the right way the wrong way that it has this unintended mellowing effect to where it becomes more of an obstruction than a compliment. This has probably been said and served a dozen different ways by now, I’m sure – this movie’s like, what, seven years old now (seven years? damn) and it has also likely been mentioned how the rest of the score plays out exactly the same even when it’s not trying to be overtly sinister (it’s all too literal, all too blunt, making its horrors obnoxious and most of its moments of tenderness whimsical to the point of tartness)… but, in a way, it… kinda works? Or it at least makes some leap of sense? Maybe it helps to consider whatever higher bars of potential Wallfisch may’ve had going on here and for Chapter Two (my best guess is something of a mix between John Williams schmaltz and either an easily peeved or mildly perked Merzbow strolling through some gray weather), but I think what eventually lets much of the film’s faults slide back to the shadows from which they came – whether it be the overreliance on score and sound or even the freakin fuckin goddamnawful rock fight scene (I mean whatthefu- really shoddy re-shoots aside why did you turn one of the biggest major turning points of the story into some comical snowball battle and why oh why oh whyy did you have to make the worst needle-drop out of Anthrax right after arguably doing the best one in the film with The Cure!?) – is that unlike Chapter Two much of its negatives are still easily outweighed by its positives (if we were to measure it in beakers it’s probably about a third or a fourth of the whole), and that those positives, when all’s been taken for granted, are still pretty good. Damn good, at parts; bordering on great in others.

What one must acknowledge when they approach IT (2017) – whether it be its own quality or why it had become the big surprise horror hit that it did and why it was the highest grossing R-rated film for quite awhile before other worser, more terrible things proceeded to claim that title – is that it is in its final strokes a YA rendition of IT the novel. Nevermind that the main cast of characters are predominantly young adults to begin with, though that of course cannot be unaccounted for; compared to King’s original book which is so unrelenting and merciless in its bloodshed on adult and child alike it appropriately pulls an epigraph from Clive Barker and Mean Streets(there’d be the usual limb-ripping, the occasional melon-knocking, then there’d be what really happens to Patrick Hockstetter), the film plays itself on a reserved line when it comes to the topic of murder, opting to drag Georgie down the sewers rather than have his marbled eyes fill up with rain, willing to show severed pieces of horrifically maimed children (whether dead or undead, real or unreal) only when obscured by ink or greywater or are near unidentifiable to be mistaken for anything else anyway. It’s not as… sophisticated?… as adult?… not as honed in to the gravities of sudden death as King’s writing often is or as it could’ve been, but the little weight and muscles it has going for here are surprisingly doable (and durable) than one would expect. It rode proudly on the waves of ADA-approved horror adventures and ‘80s nostalgia binges Stranger Things somehow managed to cast first, yet it’s also a film that asks the dreaded question of Who Can Kill A Child? when Bill cocks the captive bolt and aims it point blank to his little brother’s head, and fires. It’s not really his brother, of course, but the image – that primal discomforting thought as striking as the opening massacre from Children of the Corn (1984), as powerful as Carrie or Charlie McGee setting everything ablaze – is Metal all the same.

I’d come out of my first viewing thinking the only thing about the film that could really, truly amount to horror was everything with Beverly’s stepfather – all the lepers and flute ladies were as spooky as they told me but I remembered feeling (and talking about I just had to that night) almost frozen to ice every time she had to encounter that viler beast (and I still felt as such this time around, just as much as I couldn’t help but cheer through abated breath as she knocks that fucker dead-on), but the truth of the matter now is that very much like the book it’s not the clown that’s really scary but it’s the adults – the whole fucking town. Every turn, every glance from the eyes of an elder, is a tyger waiting, daring you to pull away and take back your dismissive act of resistance just so they can pounce on you and pin you down where they want you;it gets (in part) that there are many worse fates to befall rather than a sudden demise by some strange creature from out of the blue, that it really is submission through guilt and confinement, through downright abuse and absolute cruelty by someone as familiar to you as your very household, which can devise an even graver, more permanent death than the one you’ll eventually find in that last great incubator. It’s the kind of revelation that many of us since time immemorial have cast aside as angst (oh you angsty teens with your dour behaviors why don’t you cheer up you’re in America (well you see that’s kinda the problem)), as if that feeling is all trivial and superficial and not at all a real concern that based on circumstances can breach the lanes of life and death as swiftly as an ill sheet of ice on a bad day at hockey practice – what do you mean we’re so worried, so scared all the time? Of course we are! The ice is gonna break and it’s gonna break even further when there’s people like you who will make all our futures a living hell when you keep your selfishness and your arrogance close to your blackened hearts and you keep watching those clown-a-thon propaganda programs until it all gives way beneath our feet and we all drown in stupidity because you were all so preoccupied with the expectation and hope of death and an afterlife that you forgot to teach your children and peers the worth and meaning of life and how we must live it you bastards, you goddamn liars! Now That’s Horror – the never-ending struggle to turn survivalist against anyone or anything slightly older and/or unfairly superior to you who wishes to keep you dead in the mucks – but within it also is the Truth Inside the Lie: with friends like these, you wouldn’t have it any other way. I could be a loser, I may be a lover, but if you don’t think me a fighter you’ve got another thing comin – send you high up to kingdom come where all the gods swim we will. Count on it.

Clowns got shticks, it’s that genetic – and much like any other shtick it is also genetic to get tired of said shtick fairly quick which is often where the masters make their spotlights, leaping not away from the danger of potential mediocrity and failure but towards that sucker (hit that eye of the storm with a pie in the face and a bonk! at the nose). Yet to say Muschietti hadn’t shown any mastery in this films would be perhaps dismissive; it is fair to say he had become more a master of self-deprecating horror (if that be a term) by the time he tackled Chapter Two, and it’s definitely something you cannot miss tracing its more idle beginnings back in Chapter One, but while this film certainly began the duology’s unhealthy reliance on irritating play-to-the-screen rubber-faced Pennywise it was not without a greater counterbalance (it’s like they had themselves well on a Pennywise yin-yang before either slipping (or diving) all in on the yin). Bill Skarsgård screaming and yelping and doing a victory royale emote is annoying now, yes, but Bill Skarsgård teasing his victims, mocking (and miming!) their misery before really going werewolf (holy shit the clown’s got nards!) is right as rain. I had figured by memory alone the entire House on Neibolt Street sequence was going to be the moment the film would lose its gas for good and for all this time round; boy howdy was I mistaken. It doesn’t exactly cross the veil of transcendence to Horror Valhalla but for what it’s worth the thing comes close, I tell ya – it’s that chaotic energy, that bit of gnarly bloodied edge, this symphonic cacophony of worried youth and terror emphasized with growls and that mean mean laughter at the end of every line that really gets to you. Either something of the magic was lost in between the films or what, but man did Muschietti know how to make his tight corners tight back then, how unpredictable anything and everything can be when an adult (or something unlike an adult (or human for that matter)) holds the opportune moment of power against someone as incredibly vulnerable as a child, how suddenly frightening things like a Mr. Bob Gray or a Mr. Marsh can be once they really start to make some moves. All handheld, all close-ups, and with all the powers of the film’s varied strengths it emanates a surrealness that then swiftly swings back to reality – Now That’s Horror. You know how some people often preach about science fiction and fantasy being these great vantage points of genre fiction because they’re capable of reflecting upon our societies’ ups and ills with ease? That may be true to some extents (I’ve seen footage) but yeah right; as if. To me nothing can get any more poignant, more intimate, and much more immediate and down to the point than a meat-cleaving homicidal or a knife wielder on the loose (or in this case a monkey bastard clown sprouting mantis claws in a sewer depths). We can play civil, act coy, be erudite and perceive ourselves the superior all we want – they’re all just alternatives for what we really want to do. Everybody wants to scream. And sometimes, we do.

[themovieguys]

TETRIS: To be fair, we don't require a violent, car-chase-filled backstory of international intrigue to get us interested in this film. If it's just two hours of Taron Egerton playing Tetris, we're in. TheMovieGuys.net #TheMovieGuys #comedy #movietalk #opinions #movies #movieguys #hollywood #entertainment #commentary #cinema #filmmaking #PaulPreston #podcasts #flicks #filmbuff #films #cinephile #moviepodcast #movienews #celebrityinterviews #moviereviews #Tetris #TaronEgerton https://www.instagram.com/p/CqoWFr8P2qX/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[itagakimizuki]

saw someone's gifset of As the Gods Will sometime ago (i regretted not rb it) and now i found the movie, i'll take it as a sign for me to watch it.

[smytherines]

here's some more strange results from the app that colorizes black and white photos. I find it interesting that the Curt-focused ones are largely red tinted, like even the app knows this man is in hell right now

These aren't better quality, but a few artists have told me they use my screenshots for reference pictures. For me, my personal variety of autism demands every little tiny facial expression I can get my hands on (hello fellow movietalkers), so that's my primary interest- accentuating the facial expressions. This has yielded interesting results (to me, at least)