The visuals were beautiful and pleasing, the overall effects landed fairy well in my perspective.

All four main actors gave great performances(I initially thought Paul Bettany was a bit awkward, but as the film goes on I found his performance quite charming as well), the editing was despite unseasoned I think it was the direction for the film.

What I really liked about the film is that how well did it capture all the subtle moments in life, whether it's a happy or sad moment, they all come to a good memory one day. In other word, it felt genuine and endearing.

Despite Here as of now has terrible scores, I decided to give it a chance since I've seen some some minorities who stood up for it(especially Cahiers du Cinéma giving it 4 stars), and oh dear they were right, I really liked it, probably the first time Zemeckis truly got me after Cast Away. And as they claimed, I really hope this film would get better reputations in the future it deserves.

Miniseries have always intrigued me because they seem to occupy this fascinating space between film and television. Unlike traditional TV shows, which are designed to stretch across multiple seasons, miniseries are finite. They tell a single, complete story in a handful of episodes, often with cinematic production values and storytelling that rivals feature films. For me, they feel less like TV and more like movies divided into acts or chapters, but I wonder if others feel the same way.

Do you view miniseries as a distinct medium, or do they function more like extended films for you? Does the episodic structure alter how you experience them compared to sitting through a film in one sitting? For example, do cliffhangers and episodic pacing make them more akin to television, or does the unified narrative and limited runtime pull them closer to the realm of cinema?

I’m also curious about how the evolution of storytelling has impacted miniseries. In an era where streaming services dominate and creative boundaries blur, do you think miniseries have fundamentally changed the way we define film and TV? Consider shows like Chernobyl or The Queen’s Gambit—are these cinematic experiences in your mind, or does their format make them inherently different?

Finally, how do you personally engage with miniseries? Do you binge them in one sitting like a film, or do you savor them episode by episode? And when you look at their impact on storytelling as a whole, do you think they’re pushing the boundaries of what film and TV can do, or are they simply a hybrid born out of the convenience of streaming?

I’d love to hear your thoughts, whether you’re someone who views them as movies in disguise, TV with a cinematic edge, or something else entirely. Let’s break this down!

I'm hope this post be read as non-racist as possible because it really isn't. I'm just trying to achieve a better understanding of the themes in this movie and find out if I'm thinking wrong about the message and views of this movie about racism and how to deal with it.

Spoilers: The death of Radio Raheem is obviously the climax of this movie. But what leads to this climax and how does spike Lee handles the aftermath? Let's see:

. Giancarlo Esposito goes to Sal's pizzeria. It is clear that there is a small feud between these two. Sal doesn't put enough cheese on his slice. This annoys Giancarlo, and this annoyance eventually becomes a reason for him to protest against the pictures on the wall, shaping the plot of the film. I apologize, but isn't this protest truly ridiculous? Does Sal really not have the rights to hang pictures of his own heroes in his own shop? Later, we even find out that he is not even racist; his son is, but he is not. He cares about the black community and even takes pride in serving them. Isn't Giancarlo really the bigot here?

. Raheem also goes to the pizzeria later in the day, but he doesn't turn off his radio inside the shop. Another bad manners. Sal tells him to turn it off, or else he won't give him the pizza, which annoys him.

. Giancarlo tries to incite a rebellion and strike against Sal. Eventually, Sal's other enemy joins him and they march towards pizzeria. Inside the shop, they argue with him so much and get on his nerves that he eventually destroys Raheem's radio. Raheem then physically attacks him and chokes him and almost kills him. until the police arrive and save him, choking Raheem in the process. black community sees this scene and blames Sal. Mookie smashes the shop's window with a trash can (I think this action is the "Right Thing" in lee's script ), and the others set the shop on fire.

My question is, what exactly was Sal's sin here that resulted in a lifetime of hard work being destroyed in just a few minutes? Rahim's death is mostly Giancarlo's fault after the police. The next day, Mookie even has the audacity to tell him that the insurance will pay him.

My optimistic and personal opinion is that Spike Lee may be hinting at how small grievances and conflicts between races ultimately lead to significant harm and incidents. The police are present in this neighborhood—racist, opportunistic cops. An opportunity that the locals themselves provide for them. The lack of enough cheese on Giancarlo's pizza leads to his outburst. The refusal to give money to Mookie before the right time, along with his closeness to his sister, ultimately results triggering his rage after Raheem's death, shattering the shop's window, and causing a fire. Another reason I hold this view is the recurring dialogue "It's getting hot" by the side characters. It's like these observers are indicating the rising tension.

But what I ultimately think is that Spike Lee truly believes that violence is the only answer to racism and injustice. I neither agree nor disagree with this. My question is, violence against whom? Sal? A likes B. C kills B. Should A kill D? It's this just flat anarchism?

Despite all this, I really enjoyed this movie and I will watch it again someday. I just have some doubts about the film's message, and I wanted to spark a discussion to hear your opinions.

David Fincher’s Fight Club was one of the first films that I referred to as my official “favorite of all time” when I was first making my way through the sort of canon American classics years ago. I rewatched Fight Club recently and it surprisingly kept reminding me of another favorite of mine in Edgar Wright’s Scott Pilgrim vs the World.

They both have very specific attitudes and senses of humor that, whether intentional or not, evoke the internet in a way that some might call cringe/outdated and others might call self aware/prophetic.

At the same time, both see their directors just somehow effortlessly pull off some of the most inventive, dynamic, and cutting-edge filmmaking out there. INCREDIBLE editing, beautiful sound design (fight club in particular, good lord), distinct visual styles, perfectly fitting original scores/soundtracks, and smart uses of some very well aged CGI.

Both are about men who, in the midst of frustrations with their current predicaments (both involving potential partners who the main character grows to appreciate by the end), meet life changing partners who introduce them to a world of.. fighting. Both end in a man and woman holding hands with a city skyline in the background.

Both would of course go on to become massive cult classics despite underwhelming box office performances and are also very unique spots in both directors’ filmographies.

Lastly, both are still some of my favorites despite them basically being embodiments of some of the most obnoxious internet cultures you can find.

Peter Medak's The Changeling is a well-executed haunted house horror film with a solid plot and effective jump scares, all anchored by George Scott's stellar lead performance.

After the tragic deaths of his wife and daughter while on vacation in the snowy mountains, a grief-stricken music composer, John Russell (George Scott), relocates to Seattle to teach music at a local university. John leases a mansion from Claire Norman (Trish Van Devere), a member of the historical society, who informs him that the property has been vacant for the last 12 years. Shortly after settling into the estate, John begins to sense a supernatural presence within the house. As a result, he holds a séance and discovers that the ghost haunting the house and him is that of a young child named Joseph Carmichael. When John and Claire delve deeply into Joseph's life, they uncover some heinous secrets related to the influential senator, the founder of the historical society.

Read the full review here

Please don't downvote opinions. Only downvote comments that don't contribute anything. Check out the WHYBW archives.

As a film lover, one of my favorite aspects of the artform are the visuals. Majority of my favorite films usually have good-great visuals. After all, cinema is a visual storytelling medium.

And I find myself calling Ridley Scott as my favorite filmmaker. His films are hits and misses. He has quite a few mid films and a few stinkers in there too. But one thing remains consistent, the imagery of his films are always fantastic. A Ridley Scott film in the cinema will at the least always be a visual feast.

And I am not just talking about fancy vfx or grand spectacle or brilliant camera work. Yes all these but much more too. The framing of the shots, the detail in those frames, the use of color, the color grading and what those shots capture. Whether it's the sets, or costumes of the characters or the settings. Put simply, Ridley Scott films look RICH.

And it's no surprise why. Ridley talks about doing a lot of storyboarding scenes before his shoots. He does them often himself because he is an artist. He has formal training in drawing and painting and that is v easy to see why.

You can go back to his very early films and see he had always had great control into the look of his films. How gorgeous is The Duellists? How amazing does Alien look despite being in a single setting for the majority? Do we need to say anything about how influential Blade Runner's look has been in the genre of sci-fi and cyberpunk? He has brought the Roman Empire to life in Gladiators. Medieval France so richly drawn in The Last Duel. The way he captures orange of Mars from The Martian. The list goes on.

There is a lot to critique in his films and even direction. But it is hard to deny that he is a master of the imagery, an essential component of cinema. And he has shown great versatility in bringing several worlds to life in his films.

Do you agree with my assessment? Whch are your favorite directors when it comes to visuals/imagery alone?

Hello everyone,

I was wondering what kind of information (and where) can one seek and read about a film/show before watching it that would contribute to greater appreciation.

I know it might be controversial how much about a film should one seek to know before jumping in. However I want to hear from those who think there is some research that can be done that would only greatly improve one's appreciation rather than spoil the experience.

It very often happens that I learn some information about a movie/show I just watched which would have greatly enhanced my experience without spoiling any of it.

Thank you

edit: I specifically asked to hear from those who do NOT think it necessary to enter a movie blank slate... and I see those views are being downvoted... ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

I think what takes place in the "Continentals" consists of most of the world, and what takes place outside of the Continentals is merely covert action overlayed on the same normal reality. These worlds are the same, but they are separated in the films to give the viewer a sense of when the characters are playing by one set of rules vs when they are playing by another.

Actually, to take the analogy one step further, you could probably say that whatever is taking place in the "real world" within the Wick universe, that is what actually takes place within the real life equivalent of "Continentals" are, which are generally city-states that are capitals within larger nations, such as Washington DC, London, and Rome.

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For context, I've only recently become more interested in film, so please excuse any shallowness in my analysis.

Last week, I had the opportunity to watch a screening of The 400 Blows at a cinema, and it left a deep impression on me. I would like to put up my interpretation of the film's message for critique, and I am also very interested in anyone else's thoughts about the film.

The 400 Blows understands that children can have complex inner lives, that they can experience intense joy and utter alienation.

Doinel’s mother tries to get him to confide in her by telling him that children often forget their parents were once children too.

The film incisively shows that it is the adults who have forgotten what it was like to be children, and that they are complicit in making their own children afraid to open up.

Having witnessed how various adults misunderstand Doinel’s behaviour, and needlessly escalate to cruelty towards him, I believe most viewers are left with a sense of dread and despair when contemplating the kind of adult Doinel will grow up to become. And, who can really blame him if things turn out poorly, given that we see what he is subject to?

Extrapolating from this speculation, I am forced to reevaluate my assessment of all the adults significant to the film’s narrative. Would it be any wonder that they had developed attitudes of apathy or hostility towards children, if they too had experienced a childhood similar to Doinel’s?

Truffaut shows the audience several opportunities for others to rescue Doinel from his fate. When Doinel finds a kindred spirit in Balzac, there is a clear ray of hope - the boy has discovered a talent, a passion, a means to simultaneously make sense of the world and to express his own view of it. But this chance is crushed by a narrow-minded teacher, and the audience can only lament what could have been if Doinel had just one person around him who could appreciate and nurture his interest.

Doinel also finds a genuine friend in René. Despite their falling out, René visiting him at the observation centre towards the end of the film signifies a true and enduring friendship. But there is only so much a young boy can do to help his friend, when both of their parents are so detached from their lives.

Rarely have I felt a film speak to me on such a personal level. So much of the environment and circumstances drives people to make bad decisions, and these often compound to create someone many of us would be quick to judge or label.

This is the challenge that I see Truffaut leveling at the audience: We must recognise the extreme and often horrifying extent to which we are shaped by our environment, but also ardently believe that a single intervention at a crucial moment can make all the difference. Because if the indifference we exhibit and the cruelty we condone paves the way for evil to flourish, so too can our displays of compassion and pursuit of the good bear fruit in ways that are difficult for us to comprehend.

I'm sorry to say I lack knowledge on the technical parts of film, so I cannot hope to do justice to the visual aspects. I would be eager to read what anyone else has to write on this film, not limited to the thematic angle I approached it from in this post.

My main issue with this film like most people, I believe, is the final act.

I don't care about Brando being fat or an ass to work with (for this point). I care that the whole shebang of him becoming somehow this deity-like figure for all of these randomly bewitched Americans, Cambodians, and Viets of both sides, makes no sense at all.

His 'revelations' and ideas as portrayed in the film, and way of life, and resourcefulness and success as a cult-leader (how the fuck is he feeding people for instance) don't reflect any sort of realistic cult scenario. Nothing he emits is mass-convertingly revelationary. Nothing. At best, he might have been able to just about talk to a few learned villagers about the arbitrary nature of morals and beliefs, but his whole 'oh my god free me from opinions tripe' is hardly profound enough to convert a few lost and impressionable young people going through their first existential crises. These are diverse groups of grown people with old and distinguished cultures, rituals, rights, beliefs and systems. Most of those people wouldn't understand him anyway, and if he became woke because he read some Rilke, Homer and Goethe, that's hardly a valid or believable reason that herds of natives to decide to throw aside their catastrophic differences, and up and live with rot, squalor, capricious murder, disease and starvation, and be willing to become subservient to this fat, mopey, murderous and preachy, babbling warbler from the USA.

The very situation makes no sense.

Please change my mind.

EDIT: pls see the answers of u/dogstardied and u/AlfonsoRibeiro666. Very much quelled the strength of my convictions. Great responses.

First time poster to this community!

I teach a dual enrollment Writing 101/102 college course for high school seniors. This upcoming semester, I want to explore the ways that literature and film both shape and is shaped by our understanding of universal human experiences. I'm jumping back and forth between "War" and "Love" as the base human experiences we'll explore. I'd like to watch 3 films over the course of the semester that represent a variety of experiences with each.

For war, I'm thinking Patton (nationalistic view of war); Dr. Strangelove (satire that deconstructs it); and Grave of the Fireflies (the most powerful anti-war film I've ever seen).

I'm struggling to narrow my films for love. Right now, I'm thinking Eternal Sunshine of a Spotless Mind, 500 days of Summer (this will resonate particularly with my seniors, I think), and In the Mood for Love.

What films can you suggest that would help explore the complicated themes and ideas of either of these ideas? I'd also appreciate any explanation you want to offer about what insights they offer about them.

And a quick note: I'd like to avoid films that are sexually explicit/contain nudity and excessively gory. It's a college course, but parents are still involved and some of my students have expressed concerns about this type of content.

Thanks, all!

I recently watched Michael Cimino's historic western epic Heaven's Gate, honestly one of the best films i have ever watched.

Now i wonder why were critics & audiences so negative towards this film. I learned about the ballooning budget which led to the bankruptcy of UA, the behind the scenes abuse (be it animal or people), the difficult post-production & the bad press surrounding it. But that doesn't explain how most if not all high-profile critics jumped onboard the hate against this film the press were perpetuating.

What's your opinion on that matter?

I don’t understand the end of Paris, Texas. Let me explain: for me, Paris Texas is a state of mind, it is an aspirational place where Travis imagines he can rebuild his family. He aspires that, like his father (a character in which he sees himself reflected), he can get which keeps him alive.

But, all this breaks. Travis, drunk, reflects in a monologue about how his father idealized his mother: "He looked her, but he didn’t see her". And he begins to feel that way, he fails to fully recognize Jane after their reunion. He breaks the idealization he had of her and with this, he loses what Paris, Texas means to him. For this, he throws away the photo of his land in the bar, he is no longer interested in rebuilding his family, only in reuniting Jane and Hunter and go away as a lone cowboy or a ronin whit out honor.

But, why?  Why does he lose his hope if he finally found happiness in his son? He finally understood that he wanted to be a father, why leave Hunter alone again? Is Travis afraid that his past will resurface and repeat it again? Or does he have some grudge against Jane? When Travis says goodbye to Hunter for the last time via recording, he says: “I could never heal up what happened”.  What is he referring to? to what he did or what Jane did to him?

In conclusion, I don't understand Travis' final decision, why run away again? Wasn't Hunter helping him heal? Why abandon his family? Why abandon the hope of Paris, Texas?

So Charlie Kaufman, personally love him as a writer, even director. I think uninimaously he has been regarded as one of the most unique voices in film over the years, Being John Malkovich, Adaptation and many others but something about his writing has recently jumped out that is sort of funny I have noticed:

And that is, that while his film setups and premises often begin as quite heady and what some may call "High Intellect" Kaufman has the funniest way of imploding them and allowing his narratives to sort of de-evolve into a kind of chaos that undoes the very pretentiousness his orignal sets out upon.

Being John Malkovich begins dealing with very almost freudien themes, about self, identity and sexuality but in the end the characters fall into a free for all stumbling over quick fixes and cheaper thrills.

Adaptation- and I mean this ones the real kicker literally attempts to create an ultra film snob style story where "Nothing Happens" the kind of premise a burned out know-everything Hollywood writer would try and do to elevate itself above mindless drivel- only in the end to succomb to the "bro-iest" hilariously derisive stream of shower thought low brow cinema- As Kaufmans "Twin Brother" takes the reigns and proceeds to author a third act stacked with Guns, drugs, betrayel in the soapiest of ways complete with a nice big Ex-Machina of an Alliagator attack that saves the day. Essentually the polar opposite of the films thesis.

Similar ambitions take hold over Eternal Sunshine as well.

Leaving me to wonder about Kaufman's storytelling as it often abandons itself in favor for something quite goofy and antithetical to what would be considered "high brow" by many standards.

So what do you think? Is the genius in understanding and being self aware of it's own follies? Or is Kaufman a skewerer of the high-mindset of the material he claims to create?

Don't get me wrong i think he's a brilliant storyteller- I'd see anything he makes, but i did notice this funny common thread.

Do you have examples of a veteran/classic/old actor/actress that sort of "came back" for a great role later in their lives? I love these appearances and it's one of the many reasons why I love the Columbo series (with guest stars such as Ray Milland, Ruth Gordon, Janet Leigh, etc.) EXAMPLES: -Joan Bennett as Madame Blanc in Suspiria (actress of the 30's and 40's coming back in 1977 for this great smaller iconic role) -Lilian Gish in The Night of the Hunter (1955) -Ingrid Bergman in Autumn Sonata (1978) -Gloria Stuart in Titanic (1997) -Richard Beymer and Piper Laurie in Twin Peaks -Even Richard Harris as Dumbledore or Christopher Lee as Saruman/Count Dooku

I recently watched The Substance, and I can’t stop thinking about how deeply it parallels the journey of addiction. It’s like an allegory for what happens when someone starts using substances. When you take that first step into substance use, a new version of you is born—an entirely different person, like Sue in the movie. This new version experiences things the original you never would, and while Sue enjoys these experiences, Elizabeth—the person Sue used to be—suffers the consequences.

Elizabeth represents the part of you that watches in horror as Sue (the addict) makes reckless choices. She screams, “Stop it, stop it!”—the inner voice of reason every addict hears but struggles to obey. Elizabeth always holds the power to end it, just like the real person behind the addiction has the power to quit. But addiction is cunning. Sue reminds Elizabeth of all the “fun” and the fleeting highs, convincing her not to stop.

As Sue spirals deeper into substance abuse, the addiction tightens its grip. Eventually, addiction wins. Sue “kills” Elizabeth, just like addiction kills the original version of the person. At this point, the addict isn’t the same individual anymore—they’ve become the monster that the addiction created.

The ending of The Substance struck me the hardest. Elizabeth’s ultimate exposure feels like what happens when an addict’s life ends tragically, their struggles laid bare for the world to see. The fallout reveals the devastating truth: that their addiction turned them into someone unrecognizable.

This movie is a poignant reminder of how addiction doesn’t just destroy the addict’s life but also the person they used to be. It’s a battle between two selves, and the consequences are heartbreaking. Watching The Substance has given me a new perspective on addiction, and I hope others can see the powerful message it carries.

What do you think? Did you find similar parallels in the movie? Let’s discuss.

I have seen that there are some countries which censor a lot of movies with strict censorship, being a conservative or authoritarian country, yet they make great films nonetheless. Iran, China and Soviet Union come to my mind when i think about it. They also have such good investment to make that happen. China has been censoring supernatural horror films, yet i saw some good supernatural horror films came from China. Soviet Union and Iran censored eroticism and pornography as well.

But do you know any other countries that have the most strict censorship ever? and can they still possible to make good movies from that? So far i know Malaysian movies (i heard from redditors in malaysian subreddit, CMIIW) often include comic-relief characters and it was obliged by FINAS to do so in every movies, makes them even harder to make a serious movie, not to mention forcing too much islamic narrative in there. But i wonder can they still make a masterpiece from that? what about other countries? are there even worse censorship and how they make good movies from it still?

edit : I struggle to put a right flair for this post, can somebody help me?

Oskar is a 12-year-old boy living in suburban Sweden. Despite the relatively pacific setting, Oskar is fully aware that he lives in a violent world: guest teachers lecture on crimes at his school; he saves newspaper articles describing violent events; and he is relentlessly tormented by bullies. With Oskar as the protagonist, Alfredson's Låt den rätte komma in (2008) responds to the violence of the world through an intimate portrait of its seductive power, a power rooted in temptations of our animal nature which are strongest in our youth. We find in the film depictions not only of the power of violence to liberate us from threats, but also its power to corrupt and reproduce itself through that corruption.

Låt den rätte komma in is set in the early 1980s, the height of the Cold War, when the threat of destructive global violence hung over the heads of the entire world, though materializing primarily in smaller-scale conflicts. The world to Oskar is a kind of puzzle, like the Rubik's cube he is unable to solve. In a chilly, snowy winter setting, the world feels cold and meaningless. Oskar has a knife and practices with it on a tree, taunting it as he imagines taunting his bullies. If violence is such a pervasive part of the world, why can't he use it to save himself from the people who hurt him? We empathize; Oskar is sensitive and intelligent and in no way deserves the treatment he receives.

Then Eli enters his life, a vampire, about his age in appearance, who lives with an older man, Håken. For Oskar, Eli represents the possibilities of violence. Eli too is a victim: a very brief shot reveals that Eli was once a boy who had been castrated. The bullies as well: most of them are clearly very reluctant to use violence against Oskar, implying that they only do so under threat from their leader, and it's implied that even he is bullied by his older brother.

Eli solves the Rubik's cube and gives Oskar an answer: why not? He tries it on for size by hitting the lead bully with a pole, resulting in a hospital trip. Oskar finds the outcome satisfying, intoxicating even, and Eli is quite proud of him and continues to push Oskar further.

A key motif in the film is looking in from the outside. The film relies sparsely on most of the classic vampire tropes; the one given special attention is the requirement that a vampire be invited in to one's home in order to be able to enter. This is then the question of allowing violence into one's actions and behaviors. Violence belongs to youth, to the animal brains our rational minds have not yet grown strong enough to repress, to those who are physically strongest and most able to carry it out. Asking to come in, Eli is seducing Oskar into this violence.

This is especially compelling for us because of the underlying narrative and strength of the filmcraft: because of Oskar's loneliness, he is desperate for companionship, and Kåre Hedebrant and Lina Leandersson offer nuanced and vulnerable performances that draw us in. Eli is both protector and corruptor: they can save the day, but in the long run, things turn out badly for those who have let the wrong one (Eli) in and those whom Eli has directly victimized.

Låt den rätte komma in is morally complex: in the film's climactic scene at the pool, it seems entirely plausible that Oskar would have been murdered had Eli not intervened. It's hard to fault Oskar for choosing to follow Eli, continuing the cycle of violence and becoming Eli's new Håken. But that doesn't mitigate in any way the bad end that's in store for him.

For most of the movie, Summer is super clear about not wanting anything serious. She tells Tom, the main guy, that she doesn’t believe in love or marriage and just wants to keep things casual. But then, in the last few minutes of the movie, we find out she got married—less than a year after breaking up with Tom. It’s a total curveball that makes her seem completely contradictory.

One reason Summer is so confusing is that the movie doesn’t really explain why she changes her mind. We don’t know, because the film keeps everything from Tom’s point of view. From where he’s standing—and where we’re standing—it seems like Summer’s actions come out of nowhere.

But maybe that’s the point. Summer isn’t supposed to be a cookie-cutter love interest; she’s just a person figuring things out as she goes. Maybe she really did believe she didn’t want to get married until she met someone who made her feel differently. Still, it’s frustrating to watch because it feels like we’re missing a big part of the story.

Recently watched cure and somewhere around the 1:20 mark the screen turned into this weird black and white amalgamation of colours, the movie was already pretty weird and felt somewhat experimental with it's themes (atleast for me) so I thought maybe it's a creative choice not letting the audience view the events and allowing them to build their own image of how the trial and subsequent scenes play out.

I kept watching for a decent while just painting the scenes in my head by reading the subtitles before i realised that am just dumb and that the movie was probably corrupted but I decided to keep going, it felt like a fun experiment to see just how much a viewing experience changes when you take the "viewing" aspect out of the equation.

Finishing the corrupted version did obviously leave me with a sense of dissatisfaction (the last 10 minutes or so barely contain any lines and the movie delivers its conclusion visually) but despite all this I still felt the like I got something out of it and how my experience of the movie differed from the one intended by Kiyoshi Kurosawa.

I don't think this will work with every movie and obviously it requires you not knowing anything before hand but regardless letting your imagination run wild and just creating your own set pieces in your head is a pretty cool thing.

hello, this is a filmmaker and enthusiast speaking, i’m writing this to ask you guys for some advice.

since my journey with film properly begun (besides the occasional cinematic escapades as a child) i’ve been in a constant struggle to find the time to dedicate myself to the art. not to mention, when i do find the time i become obsessed by the perceived need to maximize that free time with a film “worth my while” (in terms of potentially inspiring for my films or “important” to film history). this usually leads me to looking for the right film, which almost takes an hour.

Anyways, my main issue is that between university work, my own work, and social life, i can’t seem to find the time to watch films. actually, to be more precise, i don’t find enough to watch the amount of films i’m sure all of you have logged on letterboxd. I’d say i’m at least 200 films away from the (semi) average film lover.

I’m just wondering how y’all manage your time enough to dive deep into cinema. I’m also curious if any film lover here paradoxically has similar experiences to mine.

What I loved about KICKING AND SCREAMING is how real the writing feels. The conflicts and conversations feel so genuine and I love the fact that nothing is sugarcoated. The characters don't really mature in the traditional way we're used to seeing in movies. They know what their problem is, but they still lack the discipline to actually change for good. It's a movie in which the procrastination aspect hits really hard because it addresses the fact that there's no going back.

Grover is so hung up on a failed relationship, but isn't willing to face his own feelings about about the woman he loves. He wants to be with Jane, who happens to call him every time she can because she genuinely cares for him. The difference is that she's able to move forward, whereas Grover isn't. He doesn't want to leave his comfort zone and then makes excuses about it, all the while accusing anyone who wants to try new things of being pretentious or snobby. Despite that, he's still fond of the time he's spent with Jane.

Then we have Max, who is so obsessed with making distinctions between everything. He looks at the sophistactions his life was made for, but he can't let go of the fact that there will be challenges in the long run in order to get to that kind of life. So, not only do we see him complain, but we see him do absolutely nothing about it. That's what makes the contrast between him and Kate much bigger. Kate is still a high school student, but is clearly much more mature than Max in terms of focus and proactivity. If something needs to be done, she will get it done without any whining or hesitation.

Otis is the meekest one, but is also the punching bag of the group, always getting ridiculed by his friends for either getting carried away with entertainment, or simply conducting himself like an oblivious child. Otis' problem is that despite getting a job in a video store, he can't carry himself to do simple things. His lack of backbone is the simple reason he's forced to settle for anything no matter how much he dislikes it.

Skippy is the brat who goes back to school and takes some courses just for the thrill said lifestyle used to offer. He doesn't really take anything seriously, not even his girlfriend Miami.

The key difference between these guys and the character of Chet is that Chet is actually self-aware and 100% straight about what he does. He knows that his lifestyle isn't something to really brag about, but he takes responsibility for his actions at the end of the day and still works proudly as a bartender at The Penguin.

While the theme of procrastination is pretty evident in all four character arcs, it's also cleverly incorporated into the ending when Grover finally embraces his feelings for Jane and decides to take flight to Prague. Given the airport employee can't sell a ticket to Grover due to his lack of a passport, her suggestion of "you can always go tomorrow" hits home with what Grover has been doing all this time (one example is the fact that he never gives his father an answer in regards to what to do with the apartment). The ending leaves the viewer intrigued about what he's going to do: is he gonna do the paperwork to get the passport? Or was it something from the moment, so now he just chickens out and doesn't give it another try? We don't know. But what we do know is that the final flashback is a reminder for Grover to be appreciative of those happy memories, whether or not he and Jane get back together.

One can see a lot of these life crisis/arrested development types of themes in Noah Baumbach's other films. While I love FRANCES HA to pieces and have enjoyed all the movies I've seen from him, I don't remember being as obsessed with a Baumbach flick as I have become with KICKING AND SCREAMING. Such a fantastic and sincere "coming-of-age" movie. It has definitely become one of my favorite films.

Movies that have a powerful, earned epiphany are some of the best around. When a character has a sudden, deep realization that the film conveys in ways that transcend plot or character are a rare cinematic gift. The impact on the viewer can be as profound as reading a great novel.

The movie doesn't even need to be a great movie to have a great epiphany. I think about the scene in I Heart Huckabees, where Jason Schwartzman's character Albert realizes he and his nemesis have the same pain and the same and fear and so are the same; it's a pivotal scene in the movie but the confluence of acting, editing, and music really makes the moment explode. Or the scene in Memento, where the audience finally catches up to the converging stories and the truth reveals itself to the main character, too, in a pivot that changes things in ways that are far more revealing and impactful than a "plot twist." Tyler Durden or Keyser Soze are plot twists, however great, but not epiphanies.

Sometimes the epiphany can even be outside the characters or story. I think of the scene in Children of Men, where a cataclysmic war manages to pause as fighters on both sides realize the precious miracle of a single baby. That earns a feeling in the viewer that is also so powerful in the "world" of the film.

So, lay it on me. What are your great cinematic epiphanies?

I recently watched Gladiator II, and while I didn’t completely love it, I have to admit that Ridley Scott still excels at crafting stunning action sequences, and the production design was phenomenal. That said, I think it’s one of Scott’s better films in recent years—which, unfortunately, isn’t saying much. It’s a shame how uneven his output has become.

One of the major issues with Scott’s recent films is his approach to shooting. It’s well-known that he uses a million cameras on set, capturing every angle fathomable without consideration for direction. Even Gladiator II's cinematographer recently criticized this method in an interview:

https://www.worldofreel.com/blog/2024/11/27/gladiator-ii-cinematographer-says-ridley-scott-has-changed-is-now-lazy-and-rushes-to-get-things-done

While this method might save actors from giving multiple takes, it seems inefficient and costly. Balanced lighting across multiple setups often takes precedence over truly great lighting, and the editor is left to sift through mountains of footage. In this interview, the cinematographer even mentioned that they resorted to CGI-ing boom mics and other obstructions out of the shots in post-production. This approach feels like an expensive workaround for what should be a more deliberate and imaginative shooting process.

What strikes me as odd is how this “laziness” manifests. Most directors, as they get older, simplify their shooting style—opting for fewer setups and longer takes, as seen with Clint Eastwood or Woody Allen. But Scott seems to do the opposite, opting for excess rather than focus. He’s been given massive budgets and creative freedom, but his recent films haven’t delivered at the box office. If Gladiator II struggles financially, it raises the question of whether studios will continue to bankroll his costly workflow considering this will be the fourth massive flop of his in a row.

Perhaps it’s time for Scott to reconsider his approach and return to a more disciplined filmmaking style. It’s frustrating to see a director of his caliber rely on such scattershot methods, especially when they seem to result in uneven, bloated films.

If you’re interested in a deeper dive, I shared my full thoughts on Gladiator II in my latest Substack post. I explore how Scott’s current filmmaking style affects the quality of this long-awaited sequel. Would love to hear your thoughts on this!

https://abhinavyerramreddy.substack.com/p/gladiator-ii-bigger-is-not-always?utm_source=substack&utm_content=feed%3Arecommended%3Acopy_link

In Whiplash, I believe Andrew finally earns the recognition he deserves and frees himself from Fletcher’s influence. Fletcher, who once lamented that he never had a student like Charlie Parker, is ultimately satisfied after witnessing Andrew’s extraordinary performance. This moment fulfills Fletcher’s desperate hunger to nurture greatness—something he was willing to achieve at any cost. While Fletcher’s teaching methods were harsh and flawed, his intentions were rooted in his desire to create a legendary musician.

Through Andrew’s performance, Fletcher’s ambition is realized, and he may even recognize the mistakes of his approach. At the same time, Andrew proves that true greatness doesn’t come from being molded entirely by someone else’s methods. Instead, a true legend, like Jimi Hendrix, shapes the art in their own way, making it uniquely their own. Andrew’s performance not only secures his place as a great musician but also serves as a testament to his resilience and individuality, proving that Fletcher’s vision of greatness needed a broader perspective.

Hi all, I recently watched Yi Yi for the third time, and am left with two relatively unimportant, nagging questions.

1. Why the drowning fake-out? About 2/3's of the way through, we get a scene of little Yang Yang going to the pool by himself and eventually jumping in, while thunder can be heard in the background. He struggles to stay afloat for a few seconds, and then the scene ends, leaving us to worry that he's going to drown with nobody around to save him.

A few minutes later, Yang Yang reappears at home, soaked from the rain but otherwise fine. My question is, why? This is not at all a film built around cliffhangers, tension, or surprise, and as we learn quite quickly, nothing actually happens to Yang Yang in this scene. It feels out of place for them to present a scene that very clearly leads the audience to fear that something bad has happened, but then ignore the implication entirely. I understand that water is a major motif and Yang Yang's exploration of the water is part of his development. I'm just confounded by the "fake out" here, for lack of a better word.

2. Can anyone explain the context behind the mother's retreat to a temple in the mountains? I gather that this not really out of the ordinary in Taiwanese culture, but I'm looking to go a little deeper here. Is it normal for women to go on weeks-long religious retreats like this, or is she part of a particular group that uniquely does this?

Further, when the monk(?) visits their apartment to ask NJ for a donation, what is the vibe of this interaction? NJ handles it all with a seemingly neutral tone; he welcomes the monk politely, and provides a donation as requested. Is there any implication that this is a scam, or that NJ's family is being manipulated in some way? Or is this aspect also a fairly normal thing in Taiwan?

I'm mostly curious to hear your thoughts on question 1, but I've thrown in this 2nd question out of curiosity. Thanks!

The Gladiator-Wicked duo is supposed to be 2024's answer to Barbenheimer. It's a story as old as the Greeks: pairing a tragedy with a satyr-play. Here I must confess, satyr-plays are less my tastes. I hadn't seen Barbie and I don't play on seeing Wicked: They're much too lightweight, lightheaded films for my personal tastes.

I did see Gladiator II, a film much more up my alley but which turned out to be a profanation, less for any deficiencies in the film itself - which is not to say its lacking in those - but for being perhaps the most depressing followup to the glory of Gladiator than one could coneive of. Small wonder Hollywood focuses more on lighthearted fare when its attempts at more serious, dramatic presentations sucks such balls?

Having said that, in spite of having no real interest in Wicked - a satricial, colourful Hollywood musical - looking it up I was encouraged to find that it, at least, bucked the trend towards posturing as a "spiritual" prequel or, as I call it, a pretendquel.

Oz seems to be one of those adaptations where the 1939 Wizard of Oz (also not a favourite of mine, as it happens) has become the proverbial "IP" rather than the L. Frank Baum books it is based on. With the books firmly in public domain, Oz films had been made by Disney and now Universal, but none have been able to break away completely from the iconography of Metro Goldwyn-Mayer 1939 film, whose rights now reside with Warner Brothers.

Disney's Return to Oz - a mixed bag which nonetheless has its charms - doesn't really look much like the technicolor musical, but it does pay homage to it in ways big and small. Director Walter Murch - more known for his work in sound and editing as this box-office bomb sadly turned him off of directing indefinitely - had cast a Dorothy that, while certainly much too young to pass for Judy Garland in a sequel, looks vaguely enough like her that it could play "in octaves" (as Murch called it) with the original. More significantly, the rights to the Ruby Slippers - an invention of the 1939 film to show-off its technicolor, in lieu of Baum's Silver Slippers - had been purchased from MGM for a brief but important appearance in the film, although in the event they were subtly redesigned from the 1939 version.

These were fairly harmless ways to tip the hat to the 1939 film. Much more deletrious, however, was Disney's attempt in 2013 with The Great and Powerful Oz. Director Sam Raimi, just recently rejected by Sir Peter Jackson from directing The Hobbit, had decided he simply could not reinvent Oz but again being a Disney production, he could not content himself with the occasional homage a-la Murch and instead chose to model his film ENTIRELY on the original, but always just different enough to not get sued by Warners. It got to such a pitch that Warners had representatives on set, scrutinizing the shade of green used on the Wicked Witch, the shape of the swirl in Munchkinland, and so forth.

This - beside the horrible, love-triangle approach conceit given to the conflict between the Wizard, Glinda and the two Wicked witches - led to a derivative, uncanny-valley-inducing, doppleganger of a film. It's not similar enough to the 1939 film - let alone in terms of design but also sensibility and directorial style - to be considered a prequel with any rigour, and yet its always similar enough to always remind one of that film, drawing unfavourable comparisons, at best, and making one wish it had the Warner Brothers logo, at worst.

Even more detrimentaly, this kind of pretendquel approach insults audiences' intelligence by thinking they just wouldn't notice and accept it as a prequel, the better to so "munch" on the 1939 film's popularity and sense of prestige. And while I do think most audience members wouldn't REALLY tell, at the same time I think that without being able to put it into words, they would feel that something is not quite consonant with the 1939 film.'

Usually, in a prequel - or sequel - there are some sort of "anchors" that are unequivocably the same, that allows us to appreciate the other similarities, nearer and further. In George Lucas' The Phantom Menace (adventurous, but beached hard in the Tatooine scenes) its R2D2, the John Williams tunes in the underscore and the voices of Antony Daniels and Frank Oz reprising the same characters. In The Hobbit (slow to start, but quite affecting) its Bag End, and the countenance of Sir Ian McKellen's Gandalf, to name just two examples.

It's true that some sequels, like Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, muddle the discussion by essentially sending the entire production through a redesign (and one significant case of recasting in the case of Cuaron's fine film) but even in that case there was the anchor of the three leads and almost all of the supporting cast, and it came out only two years after the previous entry. In Raimi's Oz film? There's no such anchor, just a lot of everything looking vaguely similar.

If there's anything at all to be said FOR this instinct by Raimi and - as we shall see - other filmmakers it is "Well, just goes to show how much they love the classic!" While it is true that there's an element of a labour of love to the kind of meticulous approximations that we find in such films, it is also true that filmmakers have shown to their love to other films and other adaptations of the same source materials without it overpowering the proceedings. Look no further than Sir Peter Jackson's interspersed homages to the 1978 Ralph Bakshi Lord of the Rings the 1981 radio serial. That, I feel, is a much better show of affection. Instead, by approximating so much of the 1939 film, Raimi had in effect produced a mockery of it, however not intended it was on his part.

This was the beginning of a minor trend. The same anger that I pointed towards Gladiator, for example, could have pointed towards Robert the Bruce (2019) - a soggy, Seven Samurai-esque story with Angus McFayden playing the same character he played in Braveheart - except that apart from McFayden's grizzled likeness, there's really nothing in the film that makes it feel like a genuine sequel to the Gibson classic, about which I wax raphsodical here from time to time.

The other literary adaptation that had proven suspectible to the Oz treatment is Lord of the Rings, which coincidentally is also getting another actual prequel in this holiday season in the guise of The War of the Rohirrim which, fan that I am, I eagerly anticipate. Anything from video games to Tolkien's own biopic (a fine period piece) have tipped their hat, stylistically or otherwise, to Jackson's sextet.

More recently. Amazon's much-maligned Rings of Power had taken the pretendquel approach to whole new lengths: unlike the Raimi film, the show in its first, slug of a season, had an accord with New Line Cinema that allowed them to closely paraphrase a few (but not all) key prop and creature designs a-la the Ruby Slippers in Return to Oz. This, along with recruiting an uprecedented amount of the same crew and even some bit-part actors, something that was obviously beyond the Raimi film, made it the pretendquel to end all pretendquels.

The muddle got to such an extent that New Line Cinema threw-in the towl before the second season went into production, limiting the similarities going forward. The use of footage from The Two Towers in their trailers for The War of the Rohirrim, while definitely overreacting at this point, was clearly done to delineate the two properties, sorting the prequels from the pretendquels, as it were.

While I do think fans can, again, instictivelly tell the difference, these kinds of pretendquels have fostered a kind of expectation that if its an Oz film or a Tolkien film OF COURSE its going to look a certain kind of way, even if the details don't actually add up to a solid sense of continuity. Obviously, there are only so many ways you can adapt the same novel (I'm momentarily discounting stuff like Cuaron's fine Great Expectations for its transferring of the action to present-day New York) and this is something that can be observed in Wicked, but its not the same as this kind of vein posturing that one finds in the Raimi film or the Amazon show.

A good example of a property being adapted several times, always in the same basic visual balpark but without anyone mistaking them for sequels of each other, is ironically with Batman: Somehow, where fans of Tolkien (or Oz) have this instinct to unduly "string" all adaptations together, fans of the funny-books have enough discerment to realize that Todd Philipps' Joker, Sir Christopher Nolan's Batman Begins and Matt Reeves' The Batman - fine films all - are not related. That's because the filmmakers had the integrity to not help foster such an expectation.

So, if my Gladiator piece was complaining about late-in-the-game sequels that unravel the resolution offered by the previous film - whether standalone or a previous sequel billed as a final entry - that THIS essay is about prequels, or rather, films that pretend to be prequels.

So I was pleased to find that Wicked does not play into this trend too much. As with Murch's Return to Oz there is an attempt to "play in a different octave" with a blonde Ariana Grande as Glinda, and like the Raimi film there's an approxmation of the famous Munchkinland "swirl" without outright recreating it, but beside the basic kind of Oz "palette" it seems that its as far it goes. Between that, and the upcoming horse opera from New Line, we can only hope that the pretendquel trend will lose what little steam it ever had.

I have not seen this movie in any version but as I am finishing a deep dive on silent movies, it is time.

There's a complicated timeline of the various versions that someone can check on wikipedia but for current viewers, it comes down to two versions:

• The Kevin Brownlow/BFI/5h30m that has been around for a long time, is highly praised and has been available for some time now on blu-ray.
• The Georges Mourier/Cinematheque Francaise/7h/Apollo that had a lot hype, was released for select audiences this year and just became available to everyone on Netflix.

Obviously I have no opinion on the matter but a comment I found interesting says:

The Brownlow restorations top out at 5hr 32m whereas this one from Georges Mourier and the Cinémathèque française runs 7hr 5m.

The Cinémathèque française version is not longer because it has 93 minutes of new footage. Brownlow's restoration is almost entirely projected at 20fps while the Cinémathèque française version is projected at 18fps (Brownlow's cut has the Brienne snowball fight at 18fps and the rest at 20).

This slower projection speed accounts for nearly all of the longer runtime.

As far as I can tell the Cinémathèque française released their DCP in 18fps for two reasons: 1) because the movie, like other silents, was shot at 18fps to save film negative, the sequence where actors are singing La Marseillaise has better lipsynching to the soundtrack than a 20fps projection and 2) the idea of a French-made cut that was an hour and a half longer than Brownlow's probably seemed like a selling point.

There is one new scene in the Cinémathèque française version, the introduction of Violine and her obsession with Napoleon.

Given that Gance was using seven cameras simultaneously (not just in certain action scenes, but seven different film units all producing footage at the same time from various locations) and that Gance made at least three separate negative cuts of the movie, there is a ton of stuff to sort through for any restoration. That's why this French version took 15 years to assemble. The Cinémathèque française cut is important because theirs is the first restoration to have access to all film elements known to exist.

For reasons of national pride and other inexplicable French stuff Brownlow was never given access to everything the Cinémathèque française held on "Napoleon". Therefore this new Cinémathèque française version does use some better film elements than Brownlow had access to and their cut was scanned at 5k, compared to the 2k of Brownlow's most recent release. But higher-quality source material and a better mastering process are the real differences between his and the Cinémathèque française version.

This is a subjective difference, but I think that Brownlow's music choices are hugely superior to the one's made by Cinémathèque française. Brownlow's composer Carl Davis had a very deep knowledge of classical music before 1820 and his absence is keenly felt in the Cinémathèque française version.

Hopefully, knowledgeable people that watch the new version share their opinions and help future viewers.

PS: If someone is finding it difficult to find these versions, I'd be happy to assist him via pm.