I haven’t been able to shake this since my second viewing of Bohemian Rhapsody last weekend. It haunts, chases, torments. While showering, reading, brushing my teeth, trying to write, trying to think. It’s bad. By the way: That “ayo” moment in the AIDS clinic (as Freddie is walking out, a guy with a Kaposi’s Sarcoma mark on his forehead offers a greeting) plays stronger the second time.
This also:
Roughly two months ago a very early draft of Eric Roth‘s screenplay for Killers of the Flower Moon (dated 2.20.17,...
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Frances McDormand‘s Fern was strong but mule-stubborn and at the end of the day self-destructive, and this stunted psychology led...
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Can’t decide which performance is better, although I’ve always leaned toward Tina Vitale, her cynical New Jersey moll behind the...
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Two days ago (1.19) a Facebook tribute congratulated Tippi Hedren for having reached her 94th year (blow out the candles!)...
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A friend suggested a list of the Ten Best American Crime Flicks of the ‘70s. By which he meant films...
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I’ve never been able to give myself over to Sam Peckinpah’s Major Dundee, a 1965 Civil War–era western, and I’ve...
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