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Category: Movies

Personal Shopper (2016)

Paranormal Activity: The Paris Poltergeist

Not unlike a Jean Rollin film, notwithstanding the budget and talent involved, Personal Shopper follows the steps of Demonlover, Assayas’ own Necronomicon, in its disgust of genre movie even though everything he has to say boils down to that French gore movie he doesn’t have the guts to film. That’s too bad, because such a movie would truly be something to behold.

An horror movie which doesn’t dare to speak its name, Personal Shopper is either a good film or a terrible one, depending on one’s perspective. Positing Kirsten Steward (positing as good) as the empty vessel prompting the movie ahead by doing shopping for someone else and being bored to bits in the process, the movie is as interesting as a brilliantly filmed Whatsapp chat not for you to read in the first place. “Life sucks” (Salome, 15yo).

Women fashion, see, is a realm of its own, which men as Refn in The Neon Demon or Assayas here are tempted to use as backdrop for their male fantasies, one for exhibition angst and the other for existentialist whatever. Still, here we revert to Marlene Dietrich as the high priestess of haute couture/camp in a reluctant makeover scene which feels hopelessly dated unless, confessing something far beyond the viewer’s interest, it is simply masturbatory in nature. It goes, one guesses, with the territory of winning the Cannes Prix de la Mise en Scène.

Some Cours Florent alumni attempts to quote Victor Hugo in some you-wish-had-been-deleted-scene, and there you are left stranded, in some Nouvelle Vague version of Suspiria. It’s impeccably made, sure, but it has everything one has learnt to dread about French author cinema: high on itself, lost on subject, and complacent on paleography.

A glossy film on an opaque topic, Personal Shopper ends (or not) on a Paranormal Activity note, thus coming clean about its limited appeal: this is, ladies and gentlemen, a contemporary take on haunting, vampirism and death-by-shopping, brilliantly lensed by an aging cinematographer in search for relevance in a subject-matter which he has no affinity with. Frankly Olivier, you were already struggling with Demonlover, and that was 15 years ago. You should learn from your mistakes.

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The Great Wall (2017)

The Great WTF

It feels weird, following our last week 2016 wrap up, that our first 2017 movie has such a solid chance to also be this year’s worst. The Great Wall is truly dumbfounding, and the only thing it shares with its titular wonder of the world is a monumental scale – of stupidity and ugliness. Some movies truly are beyond any word or philosophy: they just happen for undecipherable reasons, like an earthquake, the killing spree of a mass murderer or a flood. Call it an act of God if you must, something He would send His followers to test their faith. Yes, it’s that bad. And oh, it’s actually worse.

Matt Damon plays (if what he does here still qualifies as such) a mercenary on the quest for black powder. His crew has no map, no medicine, no food. They do not have a script, either, so they basically walk forth until they bump on the Great Wall. That’s when you remember that Yang Zimou directed the Beijing Olympics opening ceremony before this, for Chinese troops are colour-coordinated and all too eager to give a Cirque du Soleil performance under Power Rangers management. But first, Matt Damon has to clean up and shave, otherwise he wouldn’t look like a good actor with questionable choices.

As soon as he makes a grand entrance in the banquet hall, everyone raises and applaudes his fresh looks, as was the custom in ancient China. The head warrior, who also is the general’s daughter, looks suspiciously like good CGI and she tells him “Meet me on the Wall”, which considering the length of said wall sounds a bit like “Meet me in Chile”. There, the High Concept is exposed: Mars has been attacking China for the last 20 centuries, and the purpose of the Wall is to contain the green herds, looking suspiciously like bad CGI. What’s implied is that only Matt Damon will be able to successfully stops the invasion, first because he’s white, but also because he knows that killing the alien queen will result in her spawn dying in a second. Does that sound familiar to you? I don”t know what you’re talking about. Did one mention it happens in CHINA?

Chinese people, if they were stupid enough not to implement the very basic plan Matt Damon comes up with, have not remained idle during these twenty centuries. On top of black powder they have invented trust-building exercices, moderately successful hot air balloons and rotor blades, even though most of their creativity seems to have been spent on military fashion. At some point the Emperor even discovers the fridge magnet: both hilarity and mayhem ensue.

Add to this William Dafoe, convinced he stars in a Beijing Circus version of The Count of Monte Cristo, a sadly underused Andy Lau, any available cliché including the slow clapping traitor and the bravoury suicide, and if you are not bored stiff you will be rewarded at the end by a couple of scenes, one in the Forbidden City sewers, one in a tower entirely made of typical ancient Chinese rainbow stained glass. Already in Yang Zimou’s The Forbidden City, interior decoration was bordering on garish; here, we enter Las Vegas LSD Disco Inferno territory. Once again, to say that it’s stupid and ugly would be missing the point: The Great Wall is far, far beyond both. Have your optometrist at hand if you dare watching that thing. Just saying.

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Monster Bill: Worst of 2016

Worst Movie: Suicide Squad
One knows, this is no big suprise to have this dumpster of gargantuan proportions topping our list, but in a year which also inflicted Batman v Superman, Gods of Egypt, Inferno and The Accountant to a masochistic audience, this is quite an accomplishment. The draft of the caricature of a cardboard cartoon, the only suicide that thing should have caused is his writer’s.
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Worst Series: Stranger Things
What do Stephen King, Steven Spielberg and JJ Abrams have in common? Well, obnoxious children of course! Evil representatives of the military-industrial complex, too! Oh, wait, and monsters in the closet! This laundry list of a series checks all cliché boxes, but the most frightening item of all is Winona Ryder’s eight episode long hysteric rampage. Ouch, that “Will, is that you?” asked to a lightbulb will stick.
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Worst Disapointment: The Neon Demon
There was a lot to anticipate about Nicolas Winding Refn’s “fashion project” but the final Product is some hand-me-down from Guy Bourdin, not couture. His lofty ideas on beauty as a curse are dramatically hampered by his utter lack of comprehension of his own choice of subject matter. Having the movie done in LA instead of Tokyo was just a poor choice among others, but it was that straw, you know, and that poor camel all over again.
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Memorable lines
“Who are you in this vast multiverse, Mister Strange?” Doctor Strange
“A hooker with hidden depths is every man’s dream.” Westworld
“Let’s rouge each other’s nipples.” American Horror Story: My Roanoke Nightmare
“Show me your chickens, Max!” Allied
“Ah, you are not so good, Goddess of Love!” Gods of Egypt
“Don’t panic. It’s organic. It’s a va**na” Dirty Grandpa

Most dreaded movie in 2017: Blade Runner 2049

There is no way that one passes mustard, considering the ability for automutilation Ridley Scott has betrayed with his own Prometheus. After messing up his first masterpiece, it was only a matter of time he desacrated the second anyway. In spite of his mediocre Arrival, Denis Villeneuve has showed humbleness and pragmatism during the interviews he gave discussing his mission impossible: seducing a younger audience without date-raping their elders. If the movie is good, good. But could the movie possibly be good enough?

The comments section is your friend, use it to let us know if we have missed something dreadful that you would like to be reviewed here!

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Monster Ball: Best of 2016

Best Movie: Busanhaeng (Train to Busan)
Sang-ho Yeon’s first live action movie is nearly perfect, packing together social commentary, compassionate character studies, suberb action scenes and visceral gore. In a year of Brexit and Trump, with a crucial French presidential election ahead, it delivers a powerful political message to the masses: eat the rich!
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Best Series: The Young Pope
Not only Paolo Sorrentino has released masterpieces like Il Divo or La Grande Belleza, but he wrote and directed this astonishingly smart, cruel and funny frescoe about power and faith’s inherent madness. Visually somptuous and Fellinian in its voluptuous irreverence, The Young Pope would by itself demonstrate that nowadays cable TV does a better job at cinema than cinema itself.
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Best Discovery: I Am The Pretty Thing That Lives In The House
Oz Perkins’ second feature after his riveting The Blackcoat’s Daughter creeps on you like mold, like rust, like rot, resulting in the best horror movie of the year and proving that there is no need of gore when a phone cord or the corner of a carpet can be shown as so deeply disturbing. This movie redefines creepy with virtually nothing but a unique eye for framing and a fine ear for soundscaping; it is absolutely brilliant.
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Most liked Movies post: Assassin’s Creed (1,3K)
Apparently you like us best when we really, really don’t like the movie we review, since close contenders were Allied and The Girl On The Train. There is so much more where these things come from, it’s only the beginning…

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Most liked Series post: American Horror Story S6E5 (1,3K)
… But fortunately you also appreciate when we have positive things to say about good stuff. This is a pretty impressive score for a single episode review, the whole 10 episode season reaching a grand total of more than 5000 likes. Can you wait for Season 7? We can’t.

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Memorable lines
“Nobody hurts Kevin!” Ghostbusters
“It’s a terrible thing to look at oneself and all the while see nothing.” I Am The Pretty Thing That Lives In The House
“Are you sleeping Holy Father? No I’m praying. For you.” The Young Pope
“He falls in love and his mind goes to submarine life?” Genius
“Croissant was raped by a stray dog called Mohammed.” Wiener Dog
“There is no after after this.” American Horror Story, My Roanoke Nightmare


Most expected movie in 2017: Suspiria

For 40 years the simple suggestion that Dario Argento’s Suspiria could be remade was sure to be met by a fit of laughter or rage. Yet, it’s happening, courtesy of Luca Guadagnino, which credentials include Amore and A Bigger Splash, both great, and a casting which includes at least one real witch: the one and only SWINTON! We have faith: good or bad, it’s gonna be epic.

Movies we didn’t review but would do if asked nicely:

Elle (Paul Verhoeven)
Nocturnal Animals (Tom Ford)
I Am Not A Serial Killer (Billy O’Brien)
Arrival (Denis Villeneuve)
Fantastic Beasts And Where To Find Them (David Yates)
Moonlight (Barry Jenkins)

The comments section is your friend, use it to let us know what you regret we missed!

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Assassin’s Creed (2016)

Steve Jobs: The Untold Story

One remembers watching the first Assassin’s Creed demo in 2007 and being wooed by its visuals and its cinematic fluidity. The fact that 10 years later none of the movie even approximately approximates this cinematic level speaks volumes about Hollywood’s conflicting marketing unability to make anything out of anything. As a movie, Assassin’s Creed is almost entirely unwatchable; as a game-inspired movie, its makes a nice bookend with Doom; as a game-inspired movie franchise, it’s dead on arrival.

Should one bother with the story? The prologue establishes that the hero’s father killed the hero’s mother because the hero’s blood was not theirs. And one more for blood purity, a worrying concern for recent alleged blockbusters. Ensues a life of crime after which Michael Fassbender, looking suspiciously handsome, clean-shaven and muscular for a prisoner on Death Row, is executed by the State, only to be ressuscitated by Marion Godzilla. Amply provided with absurd lines by the script, she warns him “You are about to enter the Animus”. There are three know modes for Miss Cotillard: ordinary girl, in which she excels, fabricated heroin, for which she has star power, and vilain’s daughter in auto-pilot. Unfortunately, she’s in full gear third mode here.

She’s “protectress of the Apple” because, see, “the Apple is everything”. Or something. And one more for questionning the nature of reality, thanks to bogus X-ray science she developped in a secret laboratory by peering once or twice in a microscope, surrounded by fake stone pillars, dusty files and glassboxes full of antiques – which surprisingly enough, won’t get smashed this time around. Not that there are no ninjas around, though.

Twenty per cent of the movie shows a CGI eagle flying over CGI nothing while CGI bloodless massacre occurs. Filters vary wildly, and there’s is enough lense flare to suspect JJ Abrams was involved in the production. The insistance of motion capture during the contemporary scenes makes the thing look and feel like a behing the scene documentary of the game’s conception, while the horrendously edited period scenes have all the dramatic impact of an epileptic fit in a smoke machine. Late into the movie, someone utters “Commencing regression”, and it’s much, much too late an awakening of conscience.

Bless the damned thing for a one minute scene opposing Jeremy Irons (who spends half the duration of the movie looking into the abyss, maybe reminiscing the time when he got interesting roles in good movies, and doubtlessly waiting to cash his check) and Charlotte Rampling, who would make any under-written villain interesting. Michael Fassbender looks hot without a shirt on. Godzilla looks lovely with short hair. And last but not least, the line “Steak for the pioneer!” is a valuable entry in our ongoing contest for the most ridiculous line of 2016. Utterly avoidable.

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The Girl On The Train (2016)


The thing with Hitchcock is rather simple: he was a formalist and a control freak without much empathy. Show one a fully fleshed character in his entire oeuvre and one will show you a liar: they’re all puppets serving his vision. There are therefore two possible paths when copycating / paying hommage to him: the formal way, which Brian de Palma had some success with, although he was too much of a Catholic, giallo-raised Italian to do more than mimicking a repressed English Protestant; or the “inspirational” way, which equates to placing “real” people in Sir Alfred’s trademark tricky situations. And this simply can’t work, because the absurdity of the plot then takes centerstage and backfires on the characters, making them caricatures of “real” people. Exhibit 2016 is The Girl On The Train.

An awkward mix of The Lady Vanishes, Rear Window, Spellbound and Suspicion, the movie stars Emily Blunt (good, and blessed with an even better eyesight) as commuter Rachel, vicariously living a perfect life through Megan, a woman she watches on her way to and back from the city, who seems the embodiement of bliss with her blonde looks, big house and handsome husband. The day she glimpses Megan in the arms of another man sends her into a downward spiral of alcohol-fueled rage and further enhances her aptitude at stalking her ex-husband (Justin Theroux, bland) and his new wife, Anna, who gave him the child he always dreamed of after Rachel proved to be barren, rhubard rhubarb rhubarb. Are we twisted enough yet?

One fateful night Rachel has a few too many and wakes up in a confusion of blood, vomit and cryptic flashbacks from a convenient blackout. Megan has been killed and Rachel becomes The Wrong Man (well, woman in that instance), which at least has the advantage of bringing on Allison Jeanney as a surprisingly understanding cop (she must have read the script). Twists and turns ensue, until a finale which might surprise you if you have never seen a thriller before, but earns a few brownie points for a corkscrew murder – call it alcoholic justice.

Build as a 21st century TV series, with the action jumping backwards and forward via title cards, including ones introducing the female leads by their first name, The Girl On The Train is not bad at putting together in a bell jar a bunch of parasites unable to feed from each other, and that’s quite about it. Rachel the wacko tries “to remember when was the last time she had meaningful contact with anyone”, which sounds a rather quaint way to qualify her situation. Also, she’s an alcoholic for the exact time the script needs her to be, after which a brief AA meeting allows her to breeze through the programme’s 12 steps in order to ask herself meaningful questions of the “do you ever really know anyone else?” kind. Oh, rutabaga.

Don’t miss the ginger haired Red Herring or the analysed-by-numbers shrink scenes, shoehorned into what should have sticked to an unreliable witness tale of frustration and depression, or a dream, or a ghost story, or a split personnality case, or whatever else it actually is. That’s how bad it is. The Girl On The Train pilfers Hitchcock’s vocabulary but doesn’t have any grammar to put the words in a correct sentence; it is therefore a meaningless, useless exercice. Oh well, at least the last scene doesn’t show a train rushing into a tunnel; that would have been the cherry on the layer cake.

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Allied (2016)

Play It Again, Marion

For “inspired” as it pretends to be by a timeless classic, Allied sure has a twisted sense of timing. It kind of does the trick for thirty minutes or so, on the inspired grounds of “What would Casablanca become from the point of view of the woman in charge?”, then any intention to bring a new perspective to whatever is the subject goes down the drain unhappily ever after. This is French Morocco, during WW2, the villains are Nazis and this is not a Raiders of the Lost Ark spin-off, so what were you expecting? This movie is not an oddity, it is an anomaly, not to say an abberation.

Before we get to the Ferrero Rocher extended ad, let’s talk about language in this movie. It’s about spies, see, and their ability to blend in. Miss Cotillard is very good as an agent double before the script asks her character to bend over twice, and definitely better at giving birth than at dying. Mr Pitt, on the contrary, makes a fool of himself attempting at French, all the while fooling close friends or fluent German spies. And don’t start one on simulated post-coital bliss on a rooftop, spoken in English when all the neighbours are German spies. In dialogue as in war, one has to chose sides, and this movie is neither here nor there.

So, Ferrero Rochers. One guesses the ambassador assassination features prominently in the trailers, because it’s the only exciting moment of an otherwise dull, useless and as exsanguinated as the 2015 version of Madame Bovary (featuring a dull, useless and exsanguinated Mia Wasikowska). It’s all going Bourne all of a sudden, even though it doesn’t work for a number of reasons. The best thing here are character actors, which are quite on par with the alleged original. Mr Pitt, though, strikes awkward poses in uniform during an absurd bunker scene.

And it goes and on, attempting at pilfering Hitchcock’s Notorious, then Suspicion, then Sabotage, to no avail. The original, for which one doesn’t have any feeling, at least had cult lines like “This is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.” while here we are blessed with “Show me your chickens, Max.” Further down the drain, there is a scene which is an embarassment to France and its national anthem, not to mention the Resistance. One thought Mr Pitt should have known better after Inglorious Basterds, but one doubts anyone involved in production was over 25.

Featuring no less than Mr Pitt killing in cold blood a woman in front of her infant child, Allied is some seriously awkward stuff, intended as an hommage but ending as a travesty of everything it is supposed to revere. It’s garbage, undecided to be an old new movie or a new old one, a black hole of every talent’s involved in the pursuit of such a McGuffin of a movie. Call it the Oscar Curse; if only it was the worse thing Miss Cotillard was involved this year (see next).

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Under The Sun (2015)

The Father Of Invention

No stranger to hot topics, Vitaliy Manskiy, Under The Sun‘s director, has previously released, among others, Virginity (2008), about three young women using the titular asset to make their way in 21st century Ukrainia, and Pipeline (2013), casting an uflinching look at what the construction of the Trans-Siberian gas pipeline meant to local populations. He found himself in 2015 at the helm of a documentary officialy sanctioned by North Korean authorities, devoted to the one and only possible subject: how and why the last remaining Stalinian State is Paradise on Earth. He therefore dutifully followed the official instructions, only with one caveat: he kept the camera rolling during rehearsals of Pyong Yang’s version of cinéma vérité, most of the times to hilarious effect, but sometimes to a terrifying one.

There is, you see, always someone forgetting lines, or lurking in the corner of the screen, or looking straight in the camera at the wrong time, ruining the painstakingly recreated illusion of happiness and prosperity commissioned by the authorities. By virtue of these minor interferences, the omnipresent propaganda machine modeling the public consciousness in any possible way is proven unable to sustain a exterior gaze, despite, or maybe because, the constant Kim Il-sung and Kim Jong-il imagery and the delirious architecture crushing people under the weight of a dystopian, Orwellian quotidian.

Some of the scenes elicit giggles that turn to a laughter of delight. North Korea has obviously invented flash-mobs, with crowds of costumed people congregating in empty spaces to sing and dance. Kimchi can cure cancer and restore youth. In a stupendous scene of suspense lasting several minutes, a young girl might or might not fall asleep during the speech of an elderly general sporting more than fourty medals, her fight against boredom and tiredness being filmed in merciless close-up. “What do I say know?” asks the general after an endless tirade about the superiority of the North Korean army over American forces. Oblivious of the answer, he starts all over again.

Some others are painful to watch, like the final training of a very young girl dancing on marching drums. She is first ecstatic, giving the best she has, then as the teaching goes on and on she just looks exhausted and in pain. She breaks into tears. Asked to think of something good to stop crying, she first says “I don’t know what”, then recites the pledge to the Children Union like the good little citizen she is. It’s awful. Another little girl, or is it the same, chosen to embody any child of the Great Socialist Republic, appears in front of a gigantic red curtain to deliver a welcome address to some pageant at the glory of the Great Leader, and she has such a case of stagefright than it plays like the Radiator Lady scene in Eraserhead.

People take turns to have their picture taken in front of the two Great Leaders giant golden statues, looking dead inside. You look at them terrified, then you muse about the parallel architecture of the gigantic square, converging towards the current Great Leader’s grandfather and father, and you wonder: what place is left for him? He’s not on the many frescoes depicting the exploits of his elders, there’s no room left for another bronze colossus. This, maybe better than anything else, expresses the tragic alieness and alienation of a country without a future.

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Underworld: Blood Wars (2016)

There Won’t Be Blood

Attempting at resurrecting the lifeless corpse of Kate Beckinsale’s career, Underworld: Blood Wars (thereafter Blood Wars) looks and sounds like someone made a terrible mistake and injected it formaldehyde instead. Her character Selena is destined to become one of the Vampire Elders and she starts looking the part even though she seems in great shape, which is more that can be said about the CGI tornado wreaking havoc around her.

Braindeadly written and irrepressibly poorly filmed, this meager epic takes great caution in disgressing to something else, anything really, anytime something threatens to move the plot forward. Due to, one guesses, budget constraints, Blood Wars circumnavigates its big scenes through cheap slow-mo and epilectic ellipse while feverishly trying to check all the required action boxes. The result is not unlike watching unsuccessful attempts at defribrillating something long dead during ninety minutes: it’s not cinema, it’s electro-convulso therapy.

Blood Wars is much more interested in fetish gear than in the vampire lore. One mused where on Earth are so many barely legal hairdresssers that much into leather parties, and the answer is Prague, standing for “The Eastern Coven”. There, millenary vampires act like brooding teenagers, need modern medical equipment to take blood and have installed a “Dawn Alert” fired sixty seconds before sunrise because, one guesses, vampires have all the time in the world but a short attention span. Well, daylight is not such a threat anyway, considering a sunny morning gives instant way to diluvial rain in order to stay true to production design.

What stands for a script is obsessed by drug-taking and blood purity, to the point of having a coven of recently machine-gunned peacenick Walkyries return as Aryan elite warriors when some back up is needed. Selena is flanked by mostly bland characters, to the exception of the appropriately lupine Marius (Tobias Menzies) and vilain of the piece Semira (Lara Pulver, a talented antagonist in Sherlock Holmes‘ first season, here caught several times gazing at nothing, obviously bored). Oh, and Charles Dance plays Tywin Lannister – again.

Everyone being related to more or less anyone else, the thing ends – not, a sixth instalment or the franchise being planned – in family feud and serious questions about inbreeding that, unfortunately, the viewer is the only one to ask oneself. Such miscegeneration would at least explain why that fanged cohort is, from start to end, acting more like retarded backwater cannibals than like ladies and lords of the night. “Turn off the lights!” are a dying vampire last words. Please, do so, and shut the door behind you.

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La La Land (2016)

La La Lalala Lalala

The thing with reviewing La La Land is to be able to talk about nothing. Because there is nothing to say about such an absurd abuse of musical, with no less less than a vague hommage to Jacques Demy, which hold waters during a De Palma opening which has nothing to do with the rest of the movie, being one Oscar moment in a movie filled with them. It’s either Musicals for Dummies or the Cliff Notes for the same, meaning that it would make any Astaire or Kelly ashamed of their legacy to Hollywood. And do not let one start with Rogers or Charysse. It’s your 6yo attempting at Silk Stockings with only you thinking she has star material. It’s vile, repulsive material, which Hollywood will be too happy to bestow all possible Oscars on, because we are still on denial time, and the clock is not set five to midnight. Yet.

Emma Stone (playing herself to the point of being dangerously diegetic) has no less but four Oscar moments, either stripping her soul bare or belching her heart out on mediocre melodies. She also attempts at a dancing number with Ryan Gosling which is too embarrassing for words. But let’s not even start with Gosling. Emma Stone, see, is very cute. Was she aware that she was starring in a much more succesful remake of Showgirls is a question for the guy in charge of that expensive, ultra-filtrered piece of garbage, without any good supporting cast, by the way, so obsessed it it with its two stars that anyone else is reduced to pixels, including JK Simmons.

So, the problem is not that much Ryan Gosling, specialised as he is in not being there, but much of the productions choices, from colour-coordinated “chorus girls” to various filters. One means, even Baz Lufhann did it better, and this is both setting the bar pretty low and incommensurably higher. What we have here is the most possibly contrived rom-com ever (she loves jazz but she’s doomed to be a star, he plays jazz in a world where everything stopped with Charlie Parker), with half-baked cupcakes all the way.

There is an absurd music montage with actors unable to sing. For some reason it is structured on seasons, like a Buddhist movie, only without gluten. Paris is eternally stuck in the fifties, when everyone liked jazz, now a dead form of music, and please, stop this obscene carnival just now. There is nothing to like in La La Land except if you’re completely illiterate in musicals, nothing to enjoy if you have seen a couple of rom-coms, nothing to say about it except it will get many Oscars because for the time being, we like stupid escapism better than fighting the monster put in the Oval Office. This movie is criminal for saying nothing about the worst situation ever, and la la lalalala.

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