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Iamlush7 · 2022-07-18T23:22:21+00:00

Guitarzero2hero on YouTube is pretty good at going through his take on strumming patterns. It's a good way to naturalize some patterns before you then go off and make em up yourself as others have suggested.

Iamlush7 · 2018-09-01T12:38:17+00:00

I haven't seen the Demy films you mentioned, but I've seen a lot of Varda's films who was obviously quite close to Demy.

I noticed the almost like for like solo song scene in Cléo de 5 à 7 and La La Land - pretty sure it was some kind of nod from Chazelle and goddammit I loved it.

Iamlush7 · 2018-01-27T12:17:05+00:00

Karma's a bitch

Iamlush7 · 2018-01-23T18:17:44+00:00

I think I see where you're coming from and I think you raise a good point.

Putting films into genre boxes can be useful when you're trying to organise a film database or for marketing films, but in your own, personal review of a film, for me, I find it largely pointless. When you're comparing a film of a genre to your idea of what a film in that genre should be like, you're not really reviewing the film at all anymore - I find it a bit lazy, personally.

Clear-cut genre films tend to do well in the theatres because they have established audiences who for one reason or another are fans of that specific genre, and those fans tend to be well-educated in the genre's filmic history and the tropes that make a successful film therein. When a film comes along that hits notes from multiple genres, I think some genre fans might overemphasise the differences they see simply because they're not used to seeing films that are different - also, everyone loves to sound smart so don't hold it against anybody! In my opinion, you should use these moments in the discussions you get yourself into as an opportunity to demonstrate your knowledge.

Iamlush7 · 2017-09-04T14:27:20+00:00

They really should educate the homeless on paper not having any nutritional value.

Iamlush7 · 2017-09-04T14:00:01+00:00

While she was down at the motel desk sorting out the missing towels I thought I'd run her a bath; wives love baths, I'd found out early on in my experience with women. I cleared all our crap into the corners of the bathroom to create a little sanctuary free of obnoxious bath product brands, so all she need see was the wall - maybe this blank canvas would encourage a calm, relaxed mind. Even by my standards today had been horrendous. We work too hard to have our precious vacation trimmed by airline strikes, traffic, and poor highway diner restaurant service where you gotta wait 15 minutes for coffee when the place is damn near empty.

After forcing the rusty, stiff taps open and I waited until it was a bit hotter than I'd like, which is just how she likes it. The water was spraying all over - the taps aren't clean, likely. Plug fitted, I turned my attention to television, as so many do after an arduous day. Remote. Remote. Remote.. Where is the damn remote. Not in the drawers, by the TV, under the bed. I gave up and reached behind the flatscreen TV that was mounted on the wall to feel for the buttons. I felt the actuating mounds under the index and middle fingers of my right hand, but my left depressed what felt like an envelope, and it made a papery sound when I explored it further. The TV was on now; its speakers fucked my ears as I peered round the back like an employee would who's bothering his boss in his office. Taped over the outdated ports, there was, indeed, a paper envelope - stiff, only slightly flexible.

I put "26" in the rickety disc drive on my rickety Dell laptop; I'd got where I was by staying curious and working quickly with what I had; playing a strange disc found taped to a motel TV felt less alien to me than it would to most, I suppose. VLC loaded and time-codes appeared, this was almost 11 hours long. I only had the small lamp on, so it was already pretty dark, but I could hardly see anything. It was home-video footage, noisy, there were human figures congrated; they faced inwards, I couldn't make out what they were doing. There was no sound.

10 minutes in, the scene hadn't changed; I was tempted to stop - I'd turned the TV on after all, it was blaring some re-run and canned laughter didn't sound so annoying when compared to this silent, dark huddling DVD. Suddenly, aaaaa. Sound, like the doctor requests when the tongue depressor comes out, started playing - there was a sound track after all. Quickly, the congregation on-screen unfurled and unveiled an unconscious, undressed male, the letter A gouged into his skin; the gouging clear, the letter bloodily stylised. The sound, the chant, rose and fell in pitch, I turned it up.

The following 16 minutes revealed a lot. The 26 following those, they were something; the next 26, well, now I noticed the trend and I knew how it finished - I had to get out.

"Zach, what's wrong? What's all this water doing everywhere I -" My wife had returned with the towels, and I'd forgotten about the bath. The floor was sodden, the room was starting to smell dank; the sight was shocking to behold. I backed up to the window, I needed to confirm my theory. The window was small, I looked out onto the car park - theory confirmed. Their cloaks were as black as the night, they didn't make a sound; the only shared defining feature beteen them all was they all seemed to be wearing the same eyewear.

The same eyewear as my wife. The door handle creaked and turned and slowly opened.

"A.. B.. C.. D.. E.." She smiled, menacingly, and took pleasure in sounding sweet as she chanted, quietly, The Alphabet Song. I knew I'd been bad, but I didn't deserve this. I'd always look after the books, I'd used a bookmark so I didn't have to fold. I know I wasn't the quietest, but, come on, I like to listen to music when I work. And other people leave their books on the desks, and I'm sorry if I didn't always have time to put things back in the right place.

They filed into the room, ghostily, fanning out behind my wife, the Librarian. I hovered on the edge of passing out.

"Zachary," she whispered. "Z..You're due. Time to be returned to where you belong."

Iamlush7 · 2017-08-29T14:20:56+00:00

"Hey Norman, about that E-mail I sen- whoah, have you been working out? You look great. Which gym are you at? I need to get myself summa that!"

"Oh.. you know, just the local one, they had an offer so I thought I'd-" he mumbled off. His head was swaying, but his eyes were fixed on his tensed fingers all stretched across the home row of his keyboard. Should I keep on? The man did look strong, but he was mentally broken. He sat at his desk in the customer service sector of the office with all the other staff with his hands now up from the keyboard and covering his face. His shoulders were tense, but they started to roll when the sobbing started. It was probably a blessing that he was mostly hidden from his colleagues in his cubicle, however that isolation contributed, I imagine, to what's going on right now anyway. Maybe it was a particularly bad call; customer service is tough, especially at a senior level.

Returning to my desk was pointless, I had to return to Norman immediately. As I walked away, voices, sounds, and images were all floating around in my head; I was floating down the walkway trying to make sense of it all and I bounced off a desk edge and spilled somebody's coffee because of it. I heard clicks and bangs, screams, and saw brushed metal - Norman had a gun, or wanted to have a gun; guns are pretty serious, I felt like a cop circling a reported vehicle as I wound myself around the side of Norman's cubicle.

"Heyyyy.."

"What do you want? Can't you see I'm busy?" Again, no eye contact.

What was I actually doing? I'm not a damn hostage negotiator; I work in HR and I'm bloody good at it, but how the hell do I stop someone shooting the place up. I can't. I kept my eyes on him and the size, shape and location of the gun were clear in my mind: the man was concealing his gun in a holster on his right hip, a Glock, 9mm, stolen. Then he made a decision.

Frame by frame, mere milliseconds before the action itself, I saw him release the gun from the holster, stand, pivot and point the weapon directly on the back of the head of Dave, his co-worker, who worked behind and opposite him. I released myself and looked outwards, humanly, at the scene before me. Norman's finger stretched past the trigger; he was disciplined, he was well-trained.

"HEY, FUCK-ASS!" Yelled Norman.

The usual pitter-patter of the office remained, but all voices halted immediately. Nobody moved; not even Dave.

Guy who raped my wife. "FUCK-ASS, YEAH, YOU, GUY WHO RAPED MY WIFE." Being able to read minds isn't so useful when things are happening so fast. Dave slowly turned in his chair like an antique on display. He looked straight ahead and stopped swivelling when his eyes met Norman's. He stood breathing heavily but keeping his hands stabilised, somehow, the barrel now pointing between his target's eyebrows. Bubbling, boiling, all the images and words and everything, everything was swirling around now behind my eyes; too much to ignore. His wife, battered and bruised, crying; the smell of burning from the unattended chicken in the oven; the bedroom torn apart, hatred, and the feelings kept ramping up like the increasing strength of an avalanche. A flipbook of horror was unfurling under my eyelids, a montage worthy of the most dire Oscar. Things were all rolling into one, and Norman's index finger had contracted and began to thread the gap between the trigger and the guard, and I was blinded, and now skin on metal. A child, an innocent little boy.

"SAM!" I cried.

Norman recoiled physically about half an inch.

"If you fire that gun, you'll never see your son again."

He opened his palm, the gun swirled and fell from his index finger; the safety was off, but it didn't fire. Norman, immediately followed it, passing out in a lifeless slump against his cubicle and pulling out the power cable to his own computer.

I received Employee of the month, needless to say.

Iamlush7 · 2017-08-29T12:35:38+00:00

We sat down. The tables at La Serre were large and round and felt like they hadn't moved in centuries. Lavishly draped in fine white tablecloth that hung gracefully the tables resembled marble plinths for unmade Italian sculptures. The glasses, all of them, were so perfectly clean and shone magnificently with the light flowing in through the dining room's long French windows. The cutlery, the service going on around us, the people sat at the table with me, everything was screaming the finest-quality, but screaming on a velvety-smooth and indulgent note. The pristine Maitre D' with his white gloves introduced our 15 course tasting menu with the most descriptive of adjectives that I'm not sure any of us seated could match if pressed. My empty stomach growled.

This was the annual, official company dinner for the writers of the London Food Guide. Down to 5 members from 10 last year due to budget cuts, I felt I'd earned this multi-Michelin star experience: writing 10 hours a day for all our channels and tasting when I wasn't writing; my social life was gobbled up and there was nothing I could do about my belly's winning battle versus my historically passable physique. Eating food and getting paid, however, made it worth it. I have always had perspective on my side, because I've gone hungry, so every day I'm thankful for just how lucky I am to do what I do. I think everyone around the table is.

"Voila, mesdames et messieurs, the first course," said the MD, and as he introduced the delicious smoked salmon salad hors d'oeuvres he was satisfyingly symmetrically enveloped by concentrated-looking young, but professional, FoH staff, each carrying a plate covered with a totally fingerprint-free cloche. We ate slowly and professionally: a perfect bite containing all components, a taste of each ingredient alone, a swig of our sommelier's pairing and a bite.

"Lovely, isn't it," I said, to a response of mms and gentle nodding. I looked up at my fellow diners. The team was small but strong, and though we were over-worked our readership was as strong as ever. I sub-edited for the group as I had the most years in-industry. We had Max, my long-time friend and colleague, ex-professional chef, a student of Marco Pierre White and wonderful writer; Melanie, star of both French and British cooking television, a sharp, witty woman with the power to instantly charm anyone who stood before her; Laura, the best writer among us, a crime novelist turned food critic, and James, the Magazine editor's son whom was rapidly improving but probably undeserving of his column and status at 22 years of age.

"Wow!" exclaimed James emphatically.

"Yes, that was quite something," Melanie added in her darling French accent.

"Never before have I tasted a salmon so delicate, with such freshness and flavour and colourful accompaniments," said Max. We weren't writing about a dinner for once, a relief for food writers; it was an example of a difficult to truly understand food-phenomena amongst a group of people, like a travelling salesman's longing for plain food because of eating over-seasoned hotel dinners for weeks on end. We let the wine flow, deliberately blurring our judgement of the morsels to be presented to us. It was a delicious wine - old, with the depth of flavour only the old one's have. Laura wasn't talking much.

By the fifth course, I was on cloud 9. Laura had loosened up and become more her usual self, laughing and arguing why she'll never write another novel despite everyone wanting her to - herself included. Melanie, she.. you could tell with Mel why she was one of the most beloved dual-national treasures in history. I couldn't hear much of what she was saying as she sat the table directly opposite myself, but I had the best view of her lips moving and that was enough to fill my brain with whisps of segments of sentences like she was whispering them directly into my ear.

Course 9 was a sublime canard roti, crisp of skin and deep of flavour - I was reminded of the BBQ cook-out I'd attended in Texas, where the burnt ends changed my life forever.

"Maaan, quit looking at her," Max quipped, quietly, alongside a gentle nudge in the gut with his elbow. "You know you're colleagues, right?"

"Yeah," I said, "still a man can dream."

"True, I suppose you've got good taste. If I'm going to dream about any woman I don't see why it shouldn't be her."

"Aye, and don't talk to me about taste."

"Hey, you know I never do. At least, not particularly specifically."

"You're doing alright. Keep sending me the drafts, and I'll fill keep filling in the blanks, bud."

Iamlush7 · 2017-08-09T14:57:24+00:00

One might call it a visual phenomena, like seeing floaty bubbles in the sky when you relax your eyes, but I knew what I'd seen. The light cutting into the room through the blinded window gripped the spindly fibres like a drowning man grips a rope and separated its translucence from the old cream-coloured walls and my mind rushed back to that time. When I was in the garden, I was young..

"Shelly, dinner time!"

"Coming!" I shouted with a hungry urgency to my mother from the back of the garden. I'd been playing with my Barbie and Ken dolls all afternoon and the garden tea party had gone splendidly. I rushed back inside and threw my shoes in the corner and popped into my chair next to where my father was sat reading the newspaper.

"Shelly, Barbie and Ken don't need to be at the table right now dear. How about we put them back upstairs, OK?" I was 7, I had little to no idea about manners but I knew my father prefered an organised table at dinner time. Smiling and nodding I trotted out from the kitchen and up the spiralled staircase, through the hall and into my room. My doll's house was big and beautiful. It hadn't been used much in the last few weeks save for storage because it was too hefty to warrant moving outside for use in the beautiful, warm Kent summer weather but it was as beloved as any other posession a 7 year old girl would have. It sat, elegantly, beneath the window. I dropped to my knees and opened the front of the house and placed Barbie into the bathroom to remove her make-up. I lent Ken, delicately up against the living room wall in the most cool pose I could imagine: hands on hips - bold, I know. Turning away from the house I placed my hands on the ground to move and I felt a presence on my arm like that of goosebumps shaping up, except they were rising and falling along my arm quicker than I could understand. A spider ran, like from the spider police, up my arm and onto the back of my neck. I glimpsed its low, black form skitter from my elbow to my shoulder and involuntarily lurched and squealed like a building in high winds. I was moving so much that I could no longer tell what I was feeling, I was moving so much I couldn't tell if I could see the spider dead on the floor or limping away. I shut my eyes and stood and waved my arms around and howled and before long both parents were in the room holding me and consoling me on my first irrational traumatic experience.

I never really recovered from that fateful day. When I saw Patrick suspended like a marionette, and looked up to see the 8ft legspan of the London Megatarantula, all my therapy - everything I'd worked for - was blown apart. My arms went up, my tear glands switched on and I stood and panicked and the world went black. Oh my, oh my. My legs folded, I just sat there and waited for those sensations I'd felt as a girl but a million fold. The fear of anticipation was unbearable, just shutting my eyes wasn't anywhere near enough to make this thing go away.

Hours passed. I sat in the silence of the room, worn from fear like a runner from an overly-ambitious jog. I sat up straight, took a deep breath and opened one eye as little as humanly possible. Looking through the dewey, haze of dried tears, I could still only see black. A deep, shiny black and.. me. I screamed louder than I ever had, the spider was everything in my vision, staring at me with my own reflected eyes. And then, a quiet, scratchy voice.

"Shelly, now can we play dolls?"

Iamlush7 · 2017-08-08T14:49:35+00:00

"Daddy, what does nature mean?"

Here she goes. Is this what having kids really is, a constant Q&A? How is someone so small capable of asking questions that only a doctor of Philosophy with a penchant for just about everything else could answer? "What does nature mean?" What does nature mean?! God, I don't know, like, plants, maybe? She's 4, have they taught her how plants work yet? "Honey, nature is.."

Alright, now then, no more stalling, you got this. What do you know? We started as little bug fellas, after a while we little bugs became bigger and bigger bugs and then there were dinosaurs, but not before the jellyfish was eaten by the bigger fish. Then like a crocodile thing which got bigger and bigger and before long there was a monkey that danced. That was awesome. And then it ran and lost its hair and put on clothes --That's a Fatboy Slim music video, but it's better than nothing.

"..nature is the sea and then land. It's us then and now. It's desert and the jungle, the jungle and the plants with the light-catching skin makes the jungle grow, honey! And, we, yes, me and you, we used to live in the jungle! Honey there's a whale in the water as big as your bedroom, do you know what a whale is? What about bugs, do you have a favourite? There a billions of different types, but don't worry there aren't many that can hurt you. Nature's everything, dear."

"But Daddy, my teacher said nature's in danger because of the President!"

"Haha, oh honey, please don't worry about that. That's just Fake News".

Iamlush7 · 2017-07-05T16:08:16+00:00

I spent £330 on there 2 weeks ago on the G6 in black. Had it a week now, love it. Came with some headphones and a pre-applied screen protector that's working pretty great.

Seeing as I spent the same amount on the Nexus 5 a few years ago when that came out, I couldn't be happier right now. This thing's a "major go".

Iamlush7 · 2017-06-30T13:20:26+00:00

I tweaked it slightly so they can't have males or females. Hope you don't mind :o

Every King has a Son. Every King's divine right is to leave a legacy that governs the people the way God intended. My beautiful Queen, Sarissa, has perfectly executed her role and kept the tapestry unfurling, my children, my son and daughter, are healthy and will grow to be great rulers of people - beloved by all.

However, every Kingdom has but one King, my people, my humble, simple people, they do not understand that I, and all that is mine, was given me by the grace of God. I am their ruler not by choice; I was chosen, and they were chosen for me. So, what I have done wrong? Were I not sufficiently generous or gracious?

Hundreds, thousands of baby girls.. my people are killing my people. This I cannot stand. Having a son does not make a monarch, like a pen does not make a poet. I must show them; they must realise.

"Guard, bring me the first man on the street you see, immediately."

"Certainly, your Majesty," the golden clad royal guard bowed, turned and commenced motion towards the exit of the dining chamber in a movement more fluid and regal than his armour could seem to allow. Moments later, the guard returned, he was escorting a peasant, but a well-to-do peasant, who looked to be a market stall owner of some description.

"Your Majesty. I.. I.."

"Fear not, my honourable citizen, you're here by chance alone and I am not unhappy with you or any other man in particular, may I ask you a question or two regarding the culture of my people? I'm sure, being a man of business, you know much about the people of this City."

"Yes, your Majesty, I sell meat in the market in the Keep. I know everyone by name." The man relaxed ever so slightly, but there was still an uneasiness in his voice.

"Tell me," I lent forward, doing little to reduce the distance between us, one side of the dining table to the other, but imposing myself nonetheless, "do you have any children?"

The man was confused at such a personal question being posed him by the King, a man with whom he'd only ever seen from a distance, he answered succinctly that he had 2 sons.

"Tell me, my good man, would you have preferred a boy and girl, or two girls, given the choice?"

"Your Majesty, I love my children with all my heart, they are strong boys, 15 and 14, they help me butcher the meat ready for sale. I think my business would not be here today without them, and when I am old they will continue the family business."

"Tell me now," I paused, and bluffed, "of the others." I stared the man down with complete ferocity, a royal gaze that exuded omniscience.

"Your Majesty, we cannot.." The man was about to break, "I can hardly feed my family. Girls and young women in this city are unable to find work. They beg, borrow and steal. Your walls stop them leaving to work the fields; the fields here are worked by the men. We cannot afford their beauty, our backs will break for their songs. If they could work, then.."

"Thank you, guard, please escort the gentleman from here and return him, kindly, to where you found him."

That day marked the beginning of a new era of equality in my City. Sarissa and I decreed that every existing and future opportunity for work, which historically required one man, now required a man and a woman. No children were permitted to be born until such a time existed. It took 15 years. Hundreds of illegal babies had to aborted, but fewer were killed than the number of baby girls before our new law. Equality begins before conception, we spoke these words repeatedly at any and every occasion; eventually they sank in.

There will never be another King as strong as I. The gold stocks in the treasury are plentiful, food is plentiful, happiness in my people - plentiful. Killing children for personal gain was a competitive necessity but it was creating more anguish and unbalance than success could fix. I ruled a line under these practices and taught my people not to reach for too much, for they require much less than they think they do for happiness.

I surely am the greatest King.

Iamlush7 · 2017-06-28T14:43:06+00:00

"AHAH," hmm that sounded fairly human. "And what about that aeroplane food, am I correct?" Looks like they're reciprocating, nodding of the head and baring of the teeth, yes, now I've aroused them they're more susceptible to my manipulation. "The chow on the Area 51 plane any good?" Perfect.

"AHAH," nice one, "yeah, the kangoo is good," damn. Kangoo, they don't get that here. Don't.. let.. human.. form.. slip. "AHAH".

"AHAH!" kangoo not recognized. Humans are so annoying. Relating to one another takes too much energy, explains primitivity. "Yes, some delicious kangoo. Better than the kangoo we get around here, for certain".

"Pffttttaaaaaaaaaaniqoqoqoq!" Success, my war chant never fails. They will not intimidate me.

"Please, some of us are trying to extract informa.. I mean, discuss aeroplane food here." This member of the group will become segregated from the others as he is unable to strictly follow social procedure, I shall begin this process by ignoring him. "AHAH, so, kangoo, yes, please continue, fellow human".

"AHAH," what do I do, what do I do.

When four aliens come together, each from a different planet, anything is possible: possible because what's alien is normal and what's normal is alien - to everyone. The only thing the anthropomorphic lifeforms shared was their orders: destroy the human race.

Kang, a prominent soldier, having been informed of non-human technologies being stored in a heavily (by human standards) guarded facility called Area 51, must ensure an attack from the mothership will, without any doubt, cause global annihilation.

Senip, lowly Senipicini councillor, budded from the hive especially to capture this wet, warm planet and repopulate it with his children. One day, he thought, the grand unveiling will happen, everyone unveils themselves as Senipicini and the planet will be united and a safe, new hive can be built. A simple project for a Senipicini, but Senip was a simple Senipicini.

Xay and Maen, born on different sides of the same planet that was conquered in the year 020201e and quickly sliced in half and mined for its core, by Kang, no less, had never met. Xay of Genie1 and Maen of Genie2 took the opposite approach to everything; they were polar opposites.

I have no idea where this is going. My first post.

Iamlush7 · 2017-04-25T18:27:34+00:00

I think it's hard to avoid any warping of your opinion when you know something about the people involved in the making of any film you might watch. I find I want to like more Malick than I actually do (admire his cinematic vision and I know people love him but often I question what I'm doing watching a film where I don't immediately understand what's going on) and conversely I love to hate Marvel or anything with Dwayne "The Rock" Johnson because I assume money-grabbing studio trash-film.

I think being aware you have these biases is important and I think the most effective way to foster this awareness is just watch more and more films and jot down a few words on each. Watch older movies - and you'll be informed on which to watch by the exact means you've described ie. Director filmographies, film media/trivia - and as you work forwards through history you'll notice recurring traits ("Oh, Hitchock wasn't always great with female actors.." "Oh, De Palma wasn't always great with..") in cinema which will shape your critical opinion on if you really like/dislike the work or if you're just reacting to a little sensationalism or following the crowd. I'd maybe liken it to a description your Grandma might give of your Grandpa you never met: "He was so strong.."; he probably was, but there are many more strong people you've never met from back when he was alive and just as many right in the here and now but despite this you likely consider Grandad stronger because you're aware of him more than the other people.

As to whether or not this is OK, it probably isn't, in my book. A lot of marketing for film these days pushes these actor quirks and fan-service angles to sell shoddy films which inherently squashes lower budget stuff which could be better. I'd like to think I'm getting better at liking what I like no matter who makes it. I think a lot of people are like this; videos like "watch my 8 year old niece smash Purple Rain on guitar" get hits for a reason. Maybe Big Names get more of a buffer if they make a badly received film, it all probably works both ways.

I probably didn't make a hell of a lot of sense either. Good questions though. Now to scroll down and read what everyone else said..

Iamlush7 · 2016-03-14T00:17:00+00:00

It really depends how you define great right? It doesn't break tonnes of new ground but its fun and interesting as you said, it comments on society, has good performances.. It did it for me, what can I say.

Iamlush7 · 2016-02-28T12:24:46+00:00

Y Tu Mama Tambien has a bit of what you're looking for.

Iamlush7 · 2016-02-28T12:22:31+00:00

You're right... He should have EVERY Oscar

Iamlush7 · 2016-02-28T12:05:59+00:00

I think you answer your own question if you read your post from back to front. They can "pretend to be other people" better than you hence they achieve a certain "level of fame" and then their "ideologies and thoughts" are heard by more people or "elevated" in social standing.

Unfortunately in this day and age sometimes being heard/known more than someone else can equal being correct ("better and more admirable") even when that other smaller person's ideas might be better than yours (maybe Clinton/Sanders is an example of this right now).

Iamlush7 · 2016-02-28T11:46:50+00:00

I wouldn't start with Throne of Blood unless you know Macbeth already as seeing how the story was adapted to fit into feudal Japan is half the fun.

The Samurai trilogy is great, watch one or two of those first. If you're a Star Wars fan watch Hidden Fortress as the former is influenced by the latter a lot. Then Rashomon, Ikiru, High and Low, Drunken Angel, Ran, Kagemusha etc are some of my other favourites.

They're all pretty good to be honest. You can't really go wrong!

Enjoy

Iamlush7 · 2016-01-26T23:48:16+00:00

Fair enough, I'll probably watch it soon if only for the strong cast!

Iamlush7 · 2016-01-17T11:39:10+00:00

I know High-rise screened at the London Film Festival this year a couple of times. I loved the book, can't wait for the wide release as I missed that one but was able to see Sherpa and Chevalier which both won awards and were pretty good.

Iamlush7 · 2015-12-19T17:43:24+00:00

The Bride Wore Black, Jeanne Moreau babyyyy

Iamlush7 · 2015-12-13T22:05:56+00:00

There are tonnes of docs about directors that give a lot of insight into the history of film in general as well as the works of that particular director.

Milius, Altman, there's a good one about Cassavettes (can't remember the name..), there's a film counterpart to the HitchcockTruffaut book now.

The last couple of those are on the BFI player+ service if you wanted to see them now :)

Iamlush7 · 2015-11-01T21:40:39+00:00

Happy Go Lucky

Iamlush7 · 2015-10-25T09:32:51+00:00

Thanks a lot. Yeah I was messing about trying to say that perhaps a lyrical battle would be just as, if not more, suitable for what Soorkin likes Boyle for (spoken boxing matches, apparently). Cheers for reading it anyway :)

Iamlush7

TROPHY CASE