I'm pretty obsessed with this film, despite souring a bit on how it pats itself on the back often. It's critical of Hollywood, but only by way of showing how it was/is. The machismo. The toxicity. The sheer balls to treat people the way they do. And the self-importance of an industry that makes dreams but is very much an exploitative business. Kirk is great, Lana is great, Pidgeon is fun, Powell is fire.
Gorgeous and brimming with all things happy, though some melancholy or even reflective joy would've been preferred over that cop-out of an ending. After all of the love entanglements, the artist conversation, the street songs and the coffee, a wonderfully impressionistic dance number is punctuated with an unfortunate last-minute change in tempo. Maybe our American was "rewarded" for his faith in Paris, or maybe the final moment was but a dream. Maybe so is that city. Maybe so is romance. Or maybe...
Utterly deplorable. Horrid melodrama with a time and setting used only for dramatic exploitation. Nothing new is revealed or anything found within us, just people weeping, bickering, coughing and yelling like Nolan's Batman. When you use green screen, cgi smoke and desaturated lighting to indicate fiery conditions, you're telling me how cheap and uncreative you are. Rushed through to ... make a buck? To capitalize on ... that sweet 9/11 nostalgia we all share? Why was this movie made? It…
A devastating production that's less scary but more tragic than you'd think. It holds back on exposition and meaning, leaving the images and action to speak for themselves. At twenty-four paintings a second, never wasting a sequence, the film is like a Cormac McCarthy cover song if performed by David Lynch. That's a dangerous pairing.
Go in knowing nothing, come out feeling everything.