Back in college, a buddy gave me John Fowles’ novel, The Magus, as a birthday gift, with the express purpose of seeing if I saw what he saw in it.
Consistently amusing—if too long—dirty joke, with a high-powered all-star cast.
Director William Castle’s bizarre, schizophrenic children’s nightmare, damn near perfectly realized.
Superlative British shocker: expertly directed, beautifully constructed, and scintillatingly shot.
“Atta boy, Luther!”
“What you hunting this time?” “Going to shoot some pigs.”
What better way to celebrate the most macabre month of the year than to watch a grotesque comedy about Hollywood and the funeral business (guess which one is worse…)?
Your typical Elvis musical stripped of all the on-camera performances, the bikinis, the laughs (except when Guy and Nan start sniping at each other)…and then heavily medicated for severe depression.
Slam-bang, lightning-fast, crude, vital actioner…with something on its mind.
“Some men…you just can’t reach.”