At 11 am this morning I caught Potsy Ponciroli‘s Motor City, an animal-level exploitation bruiser (set in 1977 Detroit!) that’s noteworthy for experimenting with crafting a grotesquely violent cheeseball revenge-splatter film with almost zero dialogue.
Last night (Friday) I saw Jane Pollard and Iain Forsyth‘s Broken English (the Marianne Faithful tribute doc, running 96 minutes) and Kent Jones‘ Late Fame (also 96 minutes!), and I can’t really write about either with a 10:15 pm screening of Jim Jarmusch‘s Father Mother Sister Brother breathing down my neck.
It’s a shitty feeling, being this far behind. Sometimes I’m able to just bang stuff out
willy-nilly, and other times it’s a struggle.