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.
Sometimes you just need some soap-opera suds to kick off the holidays.
Her driver’s license. Her credit cards. Her bank accounts. Her identity. DELETED.
Grimy, relentlessly downbeat actioner/drama, incisive and intriguingly hazy—and far better than its rep indicates—with Raquel Welch’s first really accomplished performance.
One long, downbeat descent into the void.
Strange, hypnotic doom and gloom Southern cult classic, a modern-day Hatfield and McCoy feud underpinned by a violent, fatalistic melancholy.
“Some men…you just can’t reach.”
Take that, Mrs. June Cleaver!
Awfulness like this is rare—it needs to be acknowledged and celebrated.
It’s the end of the line for Billy Jack.