It's maybe a strange accident all the films on this list are American (save one), but I doubt it. American flag tweet! Dear friends in Europe and abroad: in case it doesn't travel, I am being sarcastic.. In about one to five more years we should get our act back together, electoral-college-strangling-Americarily speaking. I guess all we can do until then is crank out adrenalin-packed escapism and say: 'Yo, world, why not disappear down the rabbit hole mit uns? Wir haben CBD!'
Argue about ART in cinema as art if thou wishes, but there's no reality anymore, no 'morality' to rail against, no church imposing enough to incite fascist riots at surrealist anti-papal movie screenings. All western institutions have long learned to incorporate their own critiques ("fight corporations with Coke!"); even homesickness has become an escapist fantasy, a Kansas mud-mired Dorothy missing Oz so much she keeps hitting herself on the head to simulate a tornado delusion, every visit the colors of Oz fade slowly to muddy red, and her vision gets blurred from all the concussions. Myth is the mirror shield with which we may behold Medusa. Straight-up gorgon offers only the wrong kind of stoning. 2011's Melancholia is way too apt for repeat viewings. I cried during Tree of Life (also 2011) but I watched it in the theater minutes after I learned my dad was dying, so the fact I had a spiritual experience disqualifies my judgement. After six viewings, I still am only halfway to appreciating Inherent Vice. Maybe I'd resonate differently with it if I lived in LA? It took me 20 viewings to appreciate Big Lebowski. What a ride that's "been."
These are the films from this decade that vibrated my kundalini fibers with their astonishing then-ness.
1. IT FOLLOWS
(2015) Dir. David Thomas Mitchell
(2015) Dir Denis Villeneuve
(2017) Directed by Darren Aronofsky
One of the trippiest, wildest, most insane biblical fables ever, it's also a perfect emblem of its #metoo / Greta and the Global Meltdown moment. Here we have Woman as Earth, as avenger and astro-turf for that grinding, rending, overpopulating violent plague, humanity. As someone who has spent his fair share of really bad acid trips at over-crowded house parties (in my own house!), with people I don't know rummaging through my room (and me tongue stop-tied toot out kick them), is how we never really notice the moment a single night's poetry book release party with a handful of fans on the front lawn devolves into a full scale riot, and then beyond, all in real time, as Jennifer Lawrence moves from room to room of her house, trying to prevent each new destructive urge in her uninvited guests. It's so familiar I began to feel that old tang on my tongue. I wanted to run to my room and lock the door before the seagulls could strip it dry in search of souvenirs to lick for possible holy lysergic residue. With Javier Bardem as the all-forgiving poet husband/god, always inviting in more and more of the great unwashed, rationalizing each new atrocity with his endless capacity for fogiveness. It's beyond horrible, back into blissful, and farther into the abyss of religious allegorical truth than any other film since Dogville. It's weird, but it's not as sadistic or pretentious as some of Aronofsky's earlier work, depending on your tolerances for atrocity. It's the allegory we deserve, and Jennifer Lawrence--so terrible in her last few 'big' pictures (ala X-Men)--redeems herself in spades as her generation's golden wild child. (more)