From the frying pan into the fires:
On my new diet, this would’ve been tantamount to torture porn…if it wasn’t so soft and sensitive, so emotionally and spiritually nourishing and nurturing. Food as transcendent exchange is not a new artistic recipe — nor is the score, straight out of the Hundred Acre Wood — but it’s still filling and fulfilling.
Ash Is Purest White:
Old habits die hard, long after their glory burns to ash.
An over-the-shoulder portrait of being sucked into navigating, professionally and domestically, the endless catch-22s of the insidious, explicit motivations of toxic masculinity in (intrinsic to?) predatorily-patriarchal capitalism, and capital’s capacity to prostitute (thus, the title’s double meaning). Her boss — and the looming threat of sexual harassment he intimidatingly represents — lurk in the background, remaining out of focus while she desperately tries to focus on anything else in the foreground. It plays like a horror movie, powerless to the gruelingly-unfolding, and painstakingly-realized dread of the inevitable horror to come.
Out of Blue
A Hallmark Destroyer. The Happytime Murders, without the puppets and laughs. Well…without the overtly-intentional yucks, at least. A Lifetime spoof of neo-noir detective procedurals — does it matter that the movie may not be in on its own joke? The same screenplay — line of dialogue for line of dialogue — could be quite-easily directed into a comedy; Jacki Weaver — as the genre’s prototypical, emotionally-ravaged mad woman — is already there, and I’m not sure where James Caan was.