55 ReviewsOrdered By: Date
5/10
We Praise the Unusual
24 November 2017
The Midwest is incubating a monster, and he's in every club photo. A slouched posture and taboo interests define the young Dahmer. Roadkill is his closest companion, and acids are his most trusted tools. A hunger for dark meat and classmate laughs, he stages spasms to build his brand.

John has watched Dahmer with a talent scout's eye, and he sees great potential. founding the Jeff Dahmer Fan Club, John perpetuates Dahmer's lewd antics. John aspires to illustrate comics one day, and chooses Dahmer as his flagship endeavor, utilizing the awkward gold that the future killer exudes.

Fishing twists into sinister explorations when Jeff reels a creature in, and animal traps feed a vacuous curiosity for the misplaced biologist. With a mother clawing into the household's fabric, and a lame duck father, Jeff loves both far too much and crumbles under the failings of his bearers.

A hunter in training without a trainer, Jeff is sloppy and overt. He spooks his first victims and broadcasts his desires in horn-rimmed eyes. Alcohol becomes the tether to reality, enabling him to traverse even the murkiest social waters. Jeff has no mentor for the science he wishes to pursue.

Meyers fails to unearth the psychology of criminal innovation. Relying heavily on pre-established lore and fanfare, nothing appears on the screen that shocks or entices further study. The cookie cutter high school friend plot might be factual, but it makes for an uninteresting lens on a rather interesting individual. No motive rises to the surface, and no transformation commands the trajectory of Dahmer's descent into homoerotic blood bathing.
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7/10
Ashes are Edible
22 November 2017
A story with a particular historical moment in mind has been rendered timeless. A random first generation Gameboy generates a temporal whiplash, as the film's events are portrayed as contemporary catastrophes. Silence equates to death, and the team meeting in a college lecture hall has dwindling numbers, yet deafening shouts.

A prejudicial plague scorches France, bringing an already tight-knit community into a blood brotherhood. ACT UP is a guerrilla group full of eventual corpses. The HIV epidemic has threatened their love and survival. Pharmaceutical companies have cubical indifference as antidotes are sluggishly distributed by financial logistics.

As the non-violent vigilantes face just as many internal conflicts as press-generated woes, their operations grow in scale and creativity. Their weekly conferences have an intentional cadence complete with respectful snaps, hisses, and hand signals designed to facilitate the mutual understanding that has gone extinct beyond the university walls.

Sean is one of he founding members, and has some of the worst test results. He is the loudest in any given demonstration, and celebrates harder than all his peers. ACT UP is Sean's final lifeline, and his involvement resounds as a funeral dirge among a thunderous parade.

Campillo has delivered another dialogue driven barrage of human desperation. The sprinkling of establishing shots offer a reprieve from the claustrophobic disputes between the positives and the businessmen impartial to death. An important angle to an understated tragedy that shaped legislation in the most vital ways.
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9/10
Pain is Contagious
22 November 2017
Questions and accusations go hand in hand when everyone knows everyone. Mildred has thrown up a three-part whooper of an interrogative just on the outskirts of town, just so any newcomers are privy to the neglect that burns through her faded, but defiant jumpsuit.

The billboards' target lands on Chief Willoughby, a rugged yet compassionate family man, who loves saying "goddamn", and his force provides all the opportunities to pull it out. A man capable of viewing the larger picture in a speck of a town, he spatters red in attempts to wipe the advertising demons out of mind.

Mildred has always spoken with her hands, and the moment she once spoke spiteful words haunts her to this day. Holy men, and blue men have no chance of cooling her. They are all culpable for the breakfast silences and cereal fights. Her son, Robbie, writhes in discomfort as she disregards reputation with crotch kicks and viral marketing.

Officer Dixon is more of a short fuse than a racist, but particular sins float to the surface. His actions are deplorable, yet his heart rests in his momma's lap. He is the canine companion of Willoughby, and acts in contradiction to the Chief's every command. This zealot disciple might just be an incarnate desire emerging from a red wall.

The inter-connectivity of small town living makes for scolding tempers and egregious lack of judgments. When a big city crime creeps into their preservation, Ebbing inhabitants end up making unlikely friends and easy enemies. Arson becomes untraceable, but the motive is as clear as the pain of a lost child, or perhaps husband.

McDonagh has wrangled his wacky surrealism into a heart-stabbing community drama complete with genuine surprises and courageous late chapter restraint. Falling in love with the most slimy characters reveals how truly empathetic his vision was in creating a mystery with no clues and only heartache and growth.
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6/10
Childhood Erodes When Anonymity Does
15 November 2017
The Great War has left Britain in a fog, stuttering to find appropriate entertainment. Alan Milne has emerged from the trenches to the stage, and mistakes spotlights for turret fire. While introducing his first post-war production, mythical bees hover around his battered creative sphere.

Comedy plays became outdated with his brothers' carcasses. Alan is dead set on chronicling the atrocities that ransacked Europe, but his schedule is full of dinner parties requiring top notch smiles. The urban bustle does not just affect his writing, but also his connection to the newborn that has practically been handed to a surrogate mother.

Billy Moon is the little boy's name in the Milne's house, but Christopher Robin is the name that appears on the birth certificate and in millions of hardbacks. Billy's nanny, Olive, has becomes the child's compass in an ever evolving media circus that goes unnoticed by the man who stirred it up.

Alan has turned writing break play dates into research as he plagiarizes his son's blossoming creativity. His pursuits of an anti-war manifesto shifts to fiscally minded child book authorship. The exploits of this extracurricular bonding are resounded in a revealing exchange:

Billy asks his father, "Are you writing a book? I thought we were just having fun?" Alan answers, "We're writing a book and we're having fun."

Roping his son into this deceptive co-authorship will create a damaging identity crisis for the boy as he grows in an age where another Great War is brewing. The Christopher Robin and the blush toys offer a touchstone of comfort for aching families across the globe, but the cost for this phenomena is a childhood robbery.
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1/10
No, Pedophilia Isn't Funny
13 November 2017
Welcome to the most lazy and offensive $25 million production in recent memory. Where else can you find a rejoiced elderly pedophile with a sewer drain for a mouth, and a monolithic 10 plus minute static blocked shot-reserve-shot improv session in every scene.

This film is truly at odds with its audience. Flaunting its privilege with needlessly racy innuendos and genuinely vomit-worthy rape praise. The central conflict revolves around a recently of-age daughter trying to attend a frat party on a secluded lake.

Tiffany has just turned 18, and she's hungry for wasted college guys. Her plans last year were foiled by her pesky little ID, but today she scuttles to a stop in front of the frat house in her brand new Mini. Flaunting her driver's license and school uniform, she immediately has caricature males contorting their horny faces.

With separated parents, Tiffany has diverse avenues to get what she wants. Her father still thinks petting zoos are applicable birthday fanfare, whereas her mother does not even bat an eye at twilight tent hookups. Both are irresponsibly dense, and impossibly unbelievable. The comedy sketch mentality never stops, but it is also never funny.

The narrative only exists to shovel cheap twists into your expressionless face. Every decision has been made contrary to logic, and the result is a film that is brutally contrived and anti- humorous. Any surviving laughs are instantaneously slaughtered by some form of crude and medieval sexual deviance. A truly poisonous direction for the family-centric series, a deceptive turn that deserves no forgiveness.
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5/10
Jokes Don't Save Lives
12 November 2017
Restrained in chains and dangling above a hellish inferno, Thor seems a bit more jovial this time around. The serious face has withered away, and a sarcastic comedian prances through battles with lackadaisical flair. The stoicism has been traded in for improvised one-liners, a calling card of his Avenger co-workers.

Cannon story lines are immediately abandoned as this third installment grinds itself into an intergalactic buddy cop movie. Studios love to beat a winning formula into submission, and dilute all originality from newcomer directors. The structure of banished, enslaved, regrouped, and returned is about as fresh as gas station pizza.

The reconciliation at the start of the narrative is drunk with convenience, and the cameo-ridden moments of the first act are more rushed than a 6th grade science project. The film desperately reaches for compelling set pieces, however, the cliché and predictable plot advancements reveal half-baked CGI, and sloppy line deliveries.

​Brothers, who evidently have an unlimited number of do-overs, have lazy, quick-serve conflict. The Hulk has a clunky motivation and tags along because of reasons. And Valkyrie has about the most blatantly constructed redemption backstory you could give an one off character.

A story that embraces the absurd offers a fluffy, yet enjoyable rainbow ride into family feuds. Bleak late battle decisions dish out compelling conclusions, and the easy way out erodes with existential U-turns. The least serious Thor has stumbled upon the most intimate conflict in his reign, and he's only barely emotionally capable of vanquishing his sibling foe.
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Dina (2017)
9/10
Patience is Nonnegotiable
11 November 2017
Dina reaches for a stranger's hand, unaware of the social constructs that have ruled this action taboo. She's a woman that overflows with honesty and is incapable of deceit. Grasping the assistant's hand, Dina compassionately squeezes, knowing that a drill in her mouth pales in comparison to the blades of her past.

After far too long, Dina has chosen to marry again. Scott is the most personable Walmart employee in town, and has an obsession for his sports teams and Evanescence. Dina's vice is plush toys the Kardashians. Together they only share interest in one another.

Scott's ESPN app chimes audible tension as Dina sighs at her scatterbrained finance. Dina's not-so-subtle seductions fly clear over Scott's head, but it is impossible to scold his density. The truth is that Scott's confidence has always been in limited supply, while Dina has floated to the surface of hell.

Scott tells Dina that he would be dead if he had lived her life. They are trying to savage their remaining years, but childlike innocence might clog their engines. Terrors of Dina's past spill out of her mouth, but the faucet of exposition is throttled to perfection by the filmmakers.

Love hands out second chances, and patience does not always appear kind. The complexities of joining grow more compelling when the subjects are honest to a fault. Life becomes more the television programming, evolving into terrible foot massages and onomatopoeic kisses.

Dina offers the intangible "perspective". She becomes irritated, but always for appropriate reasons. More so, she articulates her frustrations openly. This skill has been pushed into the recesses of human expression. Peering into Dina's struggles and triumphs inspire a straight-forward, authentic approach to living, one that looks a little funny, but the laughter fills the gashes.
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9/10
The Devil Needs An Invite
10 November 2017
Tragedies are best played out in secret. The participants must be self-conscious to a fault, and the curse facilitator needs to have an insatiable score to settle. A Cincinnati suburb is fashioned into a Greek amphitheater, and the gods of wine and harvest are the only ones watching.

This deadly production has a singular moral, but it is not being taught to the audience. Steven, the star surgeon is the unfortunate recipient of this mythical lesson. With a wife retrofitted to his peculiar kinks, a son quick to adjust career paths, and a daughter who is an A+ expert on the horrors he faces, Steven has yet to make a sacrifice worthy of his current comfort.

Martin sticks like gum on Steven's sole. The boy's leverage is secret and potent, easily masked by tidy alibis and half truths. Steven passes professional blame onto anesthesiologists for malpractice fatalities. Step one is to properly administer sleep. The knife wielders rarely are the killers. Martin wishes to change that.

Steven has outstretched his wings, cradling Martin in nondescript diners and parking garages. When he gives the young man a watch that dwarfs his own, Martin's attachment reaches the final phase. One last peace offering remains before a game of addition spirals into subtraction.

Survival will be reduced to haircuts and epic recitals. The suburban theater bloats with situational irony, the plot engulfs sexuality and innocence in the same gulp. The modern mansion shrinks to a living room, and the villain disappears into coffee mugs at an incomplete booth.

The city with medical advances ten or more years beyond their sun- burst automobiles would suggest, has no answer for the scientific Steven. His careful domestic construction falls apart with about as much explanation as Bill Murray's temporal tornado. The killing cannot be left up to chance no matter how much he spins around the goddess' command.
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8/10
Canvases Are Windows Not Doors
10 November 2017
When a humble Dutch painter dies under a set of precarious village stories, an impromptu detective vacations in the artist's final inn. This amateur sleuth is the son of the postman that shepherded the letters of Van Gogh. When a final undelivered letter arises, the gray beard passes the duty off to his bar fight prone son.

The letter's contents are preserved in obscurity, and only the recipient is known. The brother of Van Gogh has an endless gap of correspondence that the young Armand has been commissioned to fill. A simple delivery soon transpires into an entangling film noir melodrama.

Lies fly loose in this homey countryside community. Everyone wishes to claim a piece of the genius. Some deny connection altogether. Armand does not have any horses in the race beside his unquenchable thirst for truth. A pursuit that leads to innkeeper flings and drunken tussles.

A film that dissects its subject in the most honest form, oil oozes character, and scrapes define setting. The toil of over 100 artist and 853 establishing paintings leave an undeniable mark of care. Each frame speaks to the playful tinkering that brought still figures to live.

A celebration of Van Gogh's tumultuous life, and an examination of his curious demise, the postmortem play chooses to remember the painter in unassuming vignettes and ordinary tasks. A man burdened by finances and plagued by aristocratic contemporaries, he weaved about a drab lifestyle with obsessive dedication to his craft.

Van Gogh could turn the most ordinary into a fascinating exploration of form and expression. His rain-soaked canvases tell a tale of uncompromising devotion when the world punished legacy creators. His death marked the greatest "what if" in art history, a question that will spark a dangerous journey for Armand.
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8/10
Roofs Require More Than Money
8 November 2017
A motel cul-de-sac has swallowed stacked rows of squatters. The pastel exteriors and novelty signs paint a twinkling sheen that covers welfare moans. Reservations are made in carefully segmented intervals, and the guests are never described as permanent. A purgatory for those with child ankle weights.

Bobby is the benevolent duke of the castle, a man residing beside his subjects, more of a servant than a ruler. His neck is always exposed, and his gracious disposition steamrolls his body into a doormat. Bobby's highest loyalty is to the children, unschooled, unchaperoned, and undisciplined.

The little Moonee is the three-foot terror that attempts to usurp the throne with prohibited ice cream and science experiments. She has recruited a rag tag team of mini hustlers. Stealing cues from her mother, Halley, she works the streets in significantly more innocent ways, yet retains the same sinister motive.

Stuck protecting doomed fragments of families, Bobby builds a secret charity under the nose of regional management. An alternative lodging option for families not fortunate enough to stay within the Kingdom, his operation melds Floridian and out-of-state sensibilities in often vicious ways.

Scams and unsanctioned transactions of service comprise the income of drowning mothers. Abandon crack houses and hurricane remnants provide jungle gym sanctuaries for foulmouthed but imaginative rug rats. The safaris and mystery hunts culminate in vibrant childhoods undervalued by the state.

A war of financial attrition rages as Moonee becomes a giant prune in a bathtub play prison. Bobby trusts Halley at an unreasonable level, but he is trying to rewrite a history that has pushed his last "Halley" beyond communication. Parenthood becomes rather arbitrary when predators are loose. A motel manager can even be a father in a pinch, but the kids are bound for a custody cyclone.
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