an exquisite casiotone nightmare surging with ominous lysergia. doped out and narcotic. impossible magnitudes on the psychic richter scale. colours and tones absolutely wet with chimaera and the wasps that invade our sleep. unabashed science fiction at times throbbing with the hypostasis of the complex chemical equations that govern the interaction of souls. the profound terror of black oil. and beyond-

superhero film crowdpleaser that crashes into the halls of high art. perhaps better than any film of recent vintage, this infectious concoction elucidates the breathless thrill of running home and reading a comic book fresh from the sweet shoppe. alive as yet-to-dry ink, the smudges you see on your hands are but the remnants of a rollicking time at the cinema. a splendid time is guaranteed for all....

acerbic verbiage too hot to trot, too cold to hold. the mind of stillman is in control. it's the taste that refreshes. queer and peculiar when he proclaims a desire for normalcy, the wit (or whit) of a contrarian. marvellous. idiosyncratic. assured. watch for suicides from the second floor, or operators, or the obsessively compulsive.

one of the most harrowing and gorgeous films ever to dance in my retinas. such iconic imagery and camerawork. wonderful, fleshy human characters. becalmed by nature, the toil of civilized endeavour proves to be worth fighting for. for our comrades. for our loves. if we as a species could locate ourselves amongst the river. for it is swift, and it flows, and not easily frozen in winter. our souls whisper a scream...

An amalgam and a litany. Here comes the Flood of Noah. Whedon and Goddard weave a compelling horrorshow with all the usual bite and bon mots that are Mutant Enemy staples. A horror film that bucks the inanity of killing for killings sake and "how fucked up can we kill this one???", instead maintaining a predation on the characters to feed some fearful lust. "When you light a candle, you also cast a shadow"....

In Switzerland they had brotherly love - they had 500 years of democracy and peace, and what did that produce? The cuckoo clock.

exquisite desolation unsure of everything. inured to the monotony that informs the detritus of modern life. a conflagration emerges. a soul so incredibly parched. "like an dealer [s]he was watching for the card that is so high and wild [s]he'll never need to deal another" -leonard cohen.

a glorious, madcap, technicolour comedy that penetrates and takes up scissors. take one part hannah hoch, mix liberally with some carolee schneemann and yoko ono, and simmer on high. fuck judy chicago, this is the dinner party you must attend. visions this rich shouldn't be this carefree, or infectious. time for cake.

static, numbers stations, broadcast signal intrusions, a methodology thriving in the clandestine. an exercise in topolomancy. the sheer joy in the most confounding of enigmas. cryptomnesia. the strange happens, in this world, in reality, on a daily basis. a touch of the sublime leaves its residue on these tiles. how wonderful and how odd it is to be living, and how heartbreaking. resurrect dead. you!!

the most fucked wedding (or should I say union) in cinema. a most peaceful union (or should I say collision) in the cosmos.

Psychogeography played out on atomic beaches and cosmic oceans, where being intrepid seems like a vice paid for by the dissolution of enigma. Where balancing the equations of love with the plasticity of lust causes zones of orthogonals littered with conspicuous debris. Laser cubes as the new oracles, the language of quantum physics their tarot. Where minds gone to the effects of topology refuse to terminate...

the personal is always political. [REDACTED] lovemaking as a revolutionary act. the roles we play. masks/mirrors/makeup. *MISSING REEL* when we [REDACTED] ourselves, one is compelled to be lost in the din of our own evil. a sociological schema that [REDACTED] impinge upon cinema (a reality?). the knife that we hide even from our own psyche. *MISSING REEL* lysergic denial. a referendum on our very souls...

a psychotic atrocity exhibition. in the international style. rivers of ectoplasm merge in the night. subspace traces this cartography. me(n)tal fatigue. i want more life. we are the instruments of our own evil. the synthesizer throb, portends to some semblance of emotional espionage. miles to go before we sleep. and on the proscenium, and on the playbill: "a language of signs." -a. artaud.

I fell in lust. This fucker took my balls. It made me feel unhuman. It consumed me, Saturn devouring his children. Encased in latex, breathed alive. Senses intoxicated. Suffocated. Suffocated. I felt his overpowered id. I need to feel what he felt. I wanted to be him. Yearning punctuated by impossibly wet memories. I am like Marcel Duchamp’s chocolate grinders, furiously masturbating to a climax that will never come.

i am haunted by ghosts. an oblique horror. manifestations sublime and supersurreal. i am taken by the jungle. my memories like vines. a place saturated with water. if only i could bathe in this glow. this heat inside my blood. some repast for souls in need of questioning. how can this be? where am i in this cave? which crevasse? if i can find you and mingle with your soul, is there hope i can find myself?

magic without words.

What do you consider to be unusual? In the annals of the sand that permeates the haunted cabals of Egypt, this question is posed with the greatest awareness of the parallax that impinges on the sensibilities of the contemporary, the en vogue. The crimson cascades of blood, the shrieks that send shivers, are these not the triumphs of Thanatopsis? And of this fantasia? I don't know. What do you recommend?

in a world that is really upside down, the true is a moment of the false. this moment or moments (one can never delineate) or moments, a strange loop of videotape. some electronic lotus. perhaps mcluhan could decrypt the psychosis of these daemons who've imprinted on his magnetic resonance. or we are fated to masturbate and actuate furiously on this for ever after. or merely projections. file under eschatology.

the grid as the map and the territory for a new conception of the spiritual in the rules of science and the demarcation of frontiers. takes the primordial soup of the first film and unfurls a gnosis in signs and in wonders. visually sumptuous, this work elides cinemascope and nickelodeons and the quantum. what gives rise to consciousness and homomorphisms? when all we are and all that is is code, can we know God?

a shot. a crash. a hit. floating, floating, floating. this is the alpha + the omega, the first + the last, the beginning + the end. a new terminus in japanese horror, tokyo is hell like none ever imagined. it seduces + dazzles. we transubstantiate trauma, grief, loss + death as altered states + higher consciousness. this is our drug. we reach for those who can help us deal, but only in death is there choice...

I want to give Ana Torrent a hug, for her innocence, for her fragility, for her magic. I am haunted by how she is haunted by the monster who glimpses the feelings of being, being human. Films never end when the last reel passes through the projector...

A proper review is forthcoming in the service of this most recondite, most perturbing celluloidal peregrination. This is science fiction par excellence, where astral projections of the mind are either indeterminate phantasms or the electromagnetic impedimenta of emotion. What troubles is not what is known, but what sort of topography persists unseen like so much dark matter. Hic sunt dracones...

deep into africa, all i could see and feel was beautiful madness swept away in a handful of dust....

the mechanics of the tragedy of human relationships... the kind of algorithms that physicists describe the wave collapse of electrons when observed and changed from a state of superposition... the bullet that always waits... for us...

this is the 5th dimension impinging on known reality... a phantasmagorie of vibrations within the soul and without.... the potency of Kandinsky's inner necessity melded with Shelley's wrecked poetry fused with Rilke's battle with the seraphim of death

A staggering cinematic achievement worth more eloquent words than my dumbfounded silence.

I am quite taken aback by the sheer uniqueness of this utterly captivating grotesque. A fiendishly clever evisceration on language, psychology, sexuality, atmosphere, family, and the tenuously constructed fabric of reality. Strong contender for the film of the year. Venture to your local art house cinemateque and bear witness to a film of insidious schizophrenia.

apply directly to the forehead???

a gorgeous noir-soaked vision. outside the nolan sequence, batman has never been afforded such a gorgeous canvas in which to spin a tale. haunting and provocative, this film is imbued with a giddy pathos like a mist that enraptures love, loss, and regret. action and meditation form the dyad at the vertebrae of this film, where batman must throw down the gauntlet. at the joker. at the phantasm. at himself.

what exactly is "the stuff that dreams are made of" anyway? what of oneiric pleasures and pains, lessons and lamentations? who are we when thrust to the looking glass? the intricate cosmology of our midnight perambulations is a source of rapturous power and delight. however, this astral plane is fraught with thin ice...