Chuck Palahniuk owned the late 90s. From the moment Fight Club splattered into popular consciousness, he stood in the cyclone-eye of our every swirling subcultural anxiety.
It seemed inevitable that we'd be bombarded with so many Palahniuk film adaptations that we'd finally have to learn how to spell his name - and yet it's taken this long to see CHOKE hit cinemas, translated into a dirty indie comedy with delusions of grandeur.
Everybody knows that heaps of awesome wacked out shit happened in the seventies. But the decade wasn’t all about disco and deep throat and Doobie Brothers and Dr Who, you know. Apparently some pretty seminal performance art went down too – the only thing is that nobody really documented any of it.
If you're ever pondering a move to the more fashionable, more southern cities of Australia, you should first ask yourself this question: “If I ever grow an interest in some obscure aspect of cinema that I wish to devour wholeheartedly but still only have the bank balance of a coughed-up hairball, will I become depressed that I didn't stay in Brisbane and hire all those films from Trash Video for an extremely cheap price?” The answer most certainly, is yes.
John Lennon championed him, Dennis Hopper used him and Marilyn Manson loves him. While critics have been quick to gush about some counter-cultural filmmakers, it has taken far too long for Alejandro Jodorowsky to get the credit he deserves.
Maybe it’s because he allegedly once stated that "I ask of cinema what most North Americans ask of psychedelic drugs.
Is there anything better than nervous laughter spreading slowly through a cinema? Old-fashioned Spanish ghost story The Orphanage possesses the entire spectrum of scares: sudden shocks, creeping dread, and the frantic urge to shout "No! Don't! Gah!" at the screen.
Lately, horror sometimes seems like the kind of pornography that's all sex-scenes and no awkward pizza-boy set-up.
Richard Kelly won fans with his slice of moody postmodern angst, Donnie Darko. Now the long-delayed, much-maligned Southland Tales finally arrives, and brings with it this question:
Uh, what the fuck?
Southland Tales is a sprawling, semi-satirical apocalypse flick, populated by visionary porn stars, amnesiac celebrities, giant dirigibles, and other Warhol wet dreams.
There seems to be an unspoken law that says every film festival must feature a new Takashi Miike film. Luckily, he churns out multiple features a year without a care for genre, taste, or traditional three-act structure. This unpredictable output ensures he has his share of misses, but when he hits, he hits hard.
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