Permanent sunset haze on bitter, slinking lust. Power creates it, fear compels it, and violence liberates it. Each man kills the thing he loves.
Fassbinder ended on maybe his best film.
Belongs in a class of movie that's more fun to think about in retrospect than actually sit through. Also an example of what happens to a Tarantino film when you strip it of the crackling dialogue he's hung his hat on for so long. Because whatever crackle remains rests hard on the shoulders of DiCaprio and Pitt who're supernaturally committed to giving this thing life against the film's sluggish tendencies. It's undercooked, superfluously long, irritatingly thin. Fuck off with this,…
"My [Lyft] score is very low -- I'm much too abrasive with the drivers..."
-One of the main characters that we're supposed to like and enjoy
My god, this is aggressively woke. From the get, its shallow, white feminism is thick with meritocratic condescension and empty representation. Kinda perfectly encapsulates liberalism as a state between hyper-cultural awareness and absolute helplessness -- anti-social nerds obsessed with process and rules, tearing up at the mention of Gilmore Girls. In two decades, Molly will be asking to speak to your manager. Don't trust Debate Club kids, seriously. Really makes me miss the apolitical Superbad if anything.
Gaspar Noé is extremely horny and he just won’t shut the fuck up about it. Absolute dogshit. Empty transgression, windmilling in your face with the false confidence of an exasperatingly annoying club kid. The ugliest handheld long takes I’ve ever endured, roaming the same single hallway in clunky pursuit of the carnality of human sexuality or whatever. You can rag on von Trier for being a troll and not be wrong, but at least he’s not stultifyingly one-note. I hated everything about this.