The prism doesn't allow for any exit, each edge is facing in, the three sides don't allow for resolution, but rather a continual turn inwards and around (they don't call it a love triangle for nothing). Jesse is in the apex of her lust, and she just might stay there forever. This is the best sex scene of the film.
And yet, The Lobster also reminds us how difficult life is when you’re in love-- it’s nice sharing dreams and future plans with someone, but you also have to share pain, even though it’s so much easier crying alone.
The only thing on the island more oppressive than the weather is their lust. Eventually each of them succumb to each other. Every new indiscretion is heralded by the land - a fierce wind, a frenzy of cicadas. The island itself is teeming with some phantom energy, a heat that remains from the long dormant volcano.
Richard Linklater calls Everybody Wants Some!!the “spiritual sequel” to Dazed and Confusedand the “cousin” to Boyhood—there’s always that low key sexist cousin in the family who you don’t have much in common with, isn’t there? He may as well rename this film Fuckboyhood.
His lapsed Catholicism inspires a brief internal thumb-war between moral duty and theological loyalty and really makes you reflect on how, if you think about it, you may have never met a Catholic who isn’t lapsed.
Not once did teachers warn us about forming parasitic relationships with our fake friends and gas-lighting sweethearts. Not once did we think of ourselves as wild, living organisms. Note how I say “living” instead of existing. There is a difference.
The desert seems like an unlikely choice for a song about everything; consumption, chaos, speed, glut, and overstimulation. But it serves here as a kind of primal scene for America, but in reverse. The detritus, the laboratory, and the canvas. Everywhere you go there are signs that bear the same omen: E.N. It's a logo, a joke, and the psychic condition of billions.
Julian always seemed to me like a the narrator from a post-modern novel; he's looking around at a chaotic cityscape which is vulgar, commercial, fractured, and undecipherable, and isn't sure how or even if he feels about.
Models and cyborgs are intimidating to us because of their physical perfection and their access to power. But models grow older - despite the efforts of surgery, UV absorbers, and probiotics - cyborgs don't. Vroom Vroom is an apocalyptic vision; what if the cool kids never grew up?
The circle in Make Me Like Yourecalls the circling, vulture-like mobility of the paparazzi. Gwen moves within an enclosed spiral, a space that can only point inward towards an disembodied watchman. That Gwen seems joyful in this video speaks to her ability, in her personal life, to cope with extraordinary circumstance.
"These women are utterly unlike the women I know. Women who cry and get drunk and fuck, mouths open. I am a woman sure, but I am not a film woman. I am ugly, uncool, brilliant and most of all desirous." Gabrielle Marceau From a Review of On The Road
It’s this phenomena which prevents me from ever knowing if my love for the occult, Horror films and all things macabre is nature or nurture. Did I exit the womb with a simple, congenital passion for the details of serial murders or did it all just arise from an embarrassingly Freudian repression of, and obsession with, that which my mother Fears?
Sometimes, late at night he would lean between his bike and the brick wall of a coffee shop near the pier. Listening to the passing conversations of who he came to know as thugs working for a guy named Falcone, he wondered if the OC existed anywhere else but in his mind.
Hoping that in some way he’ll understand that what I mean to say is, “when you made this TV show did you even watch any of the movies or did your friend’s kid’s friend just tell you about that time he watched Scream 2, edited for television, at his cousin’s house?”.
Silicone makes up the exposed skin of the women in the film, of which there are technically none, but if we’re going to talk technicalities: chrome lurks beneath all their skin, its gleam leaking from their eye sockets and peeking from under clothing cuffs. Opaque, concealed, clean.
Death is a naked, orgasmic seizure covered in rain, shards of fluorescent glass, passerby’s shadows, and clear, liquid vinyl. Is slow motion sexed? Would my death get you off? Why do men make women run?
I’ve just been dumped. Tears, shellac in the limo, all that. I’m not meant for a small-town Indiana quarterback, as it happens. So, I’m being sent home with my heart on my Juicy Couture knockoff sleeve. But then, the unimaginable happens.
She’s angling her coffee saucer at the corners of her mouth - lipsticked in coppery Buttercream, a new shade by Lancôme- daring the liquid to spill before swishing the creamy cappuccino in between her teeth, letting it moisten her tongue until the final gulp. She gets goosebumps and leafs through a magazine - glossy, of course - from a pile neatly stacked atop the heirloom (mother’s side) crystal table-top.