english

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Romantic comedy that does not punish with shame the morning after. Featuring candid performances that abstract away complicated emotions everybody knows but fail to articulate.

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21 years ago, a shaky trip to interpersonal traumata. A sour truck-load of acting vehicles working their solid ground muddy into the death depths.

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Toned-down, trippy-colored salty-candy trip about classic revenge and honorable madness. A well-manouvered, savagely hunted-down condensation of a source material “mastodon”.

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Singing-dancing heavy downer light-show sharply staged around a three-legged relationship with sex, booze and blood outspoken with clear-minded, subtly astute dialogue.

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Great it´d be if its understandably-wrapped-in-commercial-crap internal jungle-fever madness would outgrow the bills to pay for this watered down effort.

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Entrancing eye-mouth opener commercial film, widely deep cleaning it´s tired subject matter into something wilder stunning the soul free for a burning new world.

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Oliver Stone-light, hyperactive non-action film that acts a greasy hook with a morally firm intent to blow it’s own bells and whistles away.

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Fish-eyed, piss-European trip that´s mind-veneering even for the hardest of avant-garde-st getting bagged up drowned in the funny tasting river.

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Lucky number for derailment palming the air around the the missing family-cell walls while choking her own soul not to drown back into nothingness.

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Great for what it is: a moving-train jump into ageless redemption from the shards of bad casting trampling all over their own crystal skulls.

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Jacked up in fat aggressively whispering for respect as an actor while shooting the wrong Beatle played by another actor actually sharing the killer´s name.

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Unannounced musical pushing Dear Patience for the trailer-allergic expecting pure dialog. It sugar-shocks with its spiral-singing flopping in steady but annoying beauty.

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Warm-acted, well-hearted, boutique jewellery piece of naturally grown independent cinema that convincingly re-touches people´s frailty in great memorable angles of tiny actions.

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Could easily be the far out-test comedy ever. A mummy-issued ego trip getting away with its masturbatory pretentiousness while begging for multiple visits.

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Impeccably not grainy but full of particles modern-talkie that feels much longer than only three hours long…ing still for more Gary Oldman time.

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Solid spectral shit surrounding sound-minded guests with an obscurantist‘s pain manifest that only blood itself could come up with if it had a conscience.

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It honors the original by keeping it Swedish all the way including blurry accents that can´t stop its long force of satisfactory texture-layer brilliance.

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It starts really stupid but it Omelettes itself up into a kind of karma theater-play that’s different, kind and refined in an unpretentious way.

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Tense, biological comedy that rattles itself up like a rising sunset-snake squirming along a scuba-diving ray of light in a troubled water-sky.

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He came as a symptom of common cast-flu but left as a hilarious martyr and plot-hero who briefly but firmly reached for redemption.

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A smooth, liquid chief surgeon who’s searching for himself and other clinically dead existential answers after lowering the bar as far down as to Australia.

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Everything is hot, but-her cold soul still stinking of bad spirits that left a long time ago because they just couldn’t take her anymore.

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Single, meanest Canadian man alive known in land, space and universe that will undoubtedly kick your blistered jungle-fearing ass with disturbingly rough impersonal kindness.

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Most likeable of the cast-away cast despite being morbidly obese and condemned to comedy relief. He’ll grow on you proportionally to his own hunger.

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A promising meeting between Being John Malkovich and Fargo infused in Ben Stiller´s blue steel vision of what a good Black Mirror would look like.

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Season one is condescendingly sexy in a poor man’s Hollywood/Holloway sort of way while sometimes delivering quality twists provided one’s disbelief gets suspended enough.

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A limb-saver for the cold-challenged at heart, body and mind. Truly helpful gadget one must appreciate despite its comic resemblance to a vibrator.

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Intentionally terrible and cocky to its audience. A well made piece of trash that feels like it’s laughing at you and should stay sketch-long.

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Disturbing short-lensed piece of horror stunningly justifying its budget with visuals that let both the right talent in and over-the-top gore out.

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Picture-pitch perfect except for the sound of farts offensively trapping a scattered
plot inside of a frame that hits one square between the eyes.

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Mercilessly immersive life-long branding mind slicer of an instrumental heavy metal music video that beautifully stuns with the brute force of a thunder-grenade.

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Intimate acid dive into the stolen perspectives of the Dahmer-ed down victims of a seemingly parental crime that got out of God´s wrathful hand.

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Likeable round around Buscemi´s past featuring family and settings no one would object to watch other than a certain female interest that feels uncomfortably young.

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A good cook that makes one sick in the stomach by cringingly mismanaging both self-respect and culinary success into a greasy cul-de-sac.

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Although preceded by a promising start, the problem springs up in the hollow-middle by scattering nothing around other than fun for the people involved.

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The Pharaoh´s curse comes as a sticky security guard who’s sometimes better lit than the stolen pieces themselves guilding an architectural gem with creepy cartonnage.

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He’ll sock it to you like a bag of alkaline Christmas chimney bricks that used to be sweet but now burn through charm and bone.

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When good casting goes in the right direction, multiple perfection chemically compounds into an
earthquake that enables entire oceans of televised series to rise up.

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Firmly cushioned in the eye candy of the revolutionary storm—adorned with a Rock & Rococo soundtrack that invisibly frames the perfect portrait of unawareness.

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Chest-kicking serial-crime kill-Thriller
of breathtaking simplicity and murky south-Korean self-deprecation finding grace in pratfalls and humor of the crassest kind.

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Creeping historical “hacienda”-ascension story full of good people playing uglier-than-fiction roles to cherry things on top of sourly majestic interior/exterior shots.

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Color-blinding death-toned off-spinning voice-collage artsy-metal album that relaxingly flays out in every sonic direction with labyrinth waves of distorted comfort.

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Complex messianic circle jerk that transgressively fortune-wheels its dark-hippy nonsensical beauty around bringing its victims to a profound world of shit and cum.

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Grounded with emotional veracity in the most vocal point of feud with the Death of everything that was holy and pure to rock and roll.

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Tightly braided razor-wire-sharp mind-trip-comedy that daringly keeps coming back to itself while swinging hard with colorful come-ups and come-downs.

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Fully charged but its progressive energy keeps getting cut off by a silver screenplay that can’t tell exposition from emotional-trigger boredom apart at all.

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A big booty in the desert magnetically pulls sore strangers and their dry behavioural rage together to visit the normally closed off parts of hell.

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A fresh and detailed Balkan-conflict account audio-visually narrated in such a perfect crew-cut way that´s bound to blow any Ken Burns away.

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Despite sugar visuals and good Penn-manship this film strays all over the place with those unafraid to fly over an ocean of scrambled plots.

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Tall, biblical thriller that out-of-the-box polishes and replenishes audiovisual standards up to a stern point of absurdity where nothing ends before pain.

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Lyrical metal trip divining its way through inventive twists & shouts in the darkest of pink clouds in a self-medicated ward in the sky.

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“Morbid self-attention” won’t get you to revenge the world against what’s wrongly dark and seldom slightly right. “Don‘t you want to make it, mister?”

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Complex hard-watch that feels like a nightmare Sake bar-brawl-beating loop with a heart-kicking pace that punches holes into every moral direction.

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Classiest porn noir of the century with a truly horny Douglas who keeps the viewer interested after manually climaxing for the first couple of times.

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Dry up to caustic but full of silver guts bravado and true no-nonsense resuscitation that domestically questions everything that´s drowning in its quarrel-lake.

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A roman candle of crazy characters (most of which are no doubt stolen from nearby realities) in an overwrought romanticised dark comedy by bonehead Bono.

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His name is Robert Paulsen and his tits are not as large as his wounded heart which bleeds loud & clear like testicular cancer does.

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Three of them fucked prostitutes already. Two are on their way to their right-of-passage-overdose. The drummer studies hard to become an engineer.

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For those who have ears a most unwelcome Chinese face mask that feels like making out with a Muppet inside of a sterilized hospital casket.

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Punch-Drunk Love (2002) meets the Lincoln Lawyer (2011) with a pure Sandler as main stressing agent in a beautifully acted display of ugly characters.

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Strongly-subtle dark comedy that can for days on end make one consistently laugh out loud at punch-line silences that stitch to the mind.

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Family values suffer
In this Passion Play
Powered by music,
Coal, OIL, & palms
Greased by multiple
Pieces of silver.
Lewis triumphs in
Self-crucifixion.

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Benchmark trip from a fantastic audio-visual realm that does not really clarify the slowly rotating Rubik´s Cube storyline that’s space-cold and trauma-like.

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A clandestine teenage brothel run by hard loving parents who keep basking in God´s rain right where the moral crater seems to bleed the most.

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First:
Watch NO SOUND
(just subtitles).

Next:
Watch w/ voices
(& excellent musical “commentary”).

This delivers Nicholson’s
“Lear/Quixote”
As SUPREME
(Max Sennett)

TRAGI-COMEDY.

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Single most black & white modern period-film exquisitely monkey-grinding the royal Randolph hemp out of us with Reznor-sharp reel-changing monochromatic flair.

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In spite of “his” queenly-elegant, high-fashion posings of the “gifted class”,
his innate compassion evokes sincere smiles and matures him into Gary Cooper!

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Geoffrey Rushes his
Portayal of Proteus
Both amusing
And annihilating all
Significant others
(especially mothers),
But never
Pleased!
(Based-on book)

Don’t skip
Audio Commentaries!

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Not even partially dubious casting could jinx this blood-ruby of classy kitsch—carved out of morbid fascination and respect for the franchise´s original outputs.

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It turns & churns its lyrical core longingly while secreting stringed beauty made fragile again and again by dramatic orchestral chords that rage with urge.

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The patient himself must triage between a somewhat morally stiff and judgemental narrative and another one directed to the self that´s sympathetic and truly helpful.

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With youth one can hide from adulthood either by extending it or revisiting…but to escape it entirely, however: one has to try much harder.

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Lukewarm ghostly at its wide-open churchy heart when not abruptly peacocking itself up with old lascivious grown-up lustre from nighttimes gone clandestinely wild.

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Precious stone of modern independent cinema and character study “par excellence.” Hysterical, ballistic and mordantly fulminant. A truly stimulating example for period-films to come.

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The nicely hooded underground of a metallurgic engine compiled by four instrumental members who are fast in repeating themselves well in aggressive shoulder-patting patterns.

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Cool-covered dark matter album that pulsates with rhyming drums while guitars bend long and calm together between clear-gutter vocals in tension-releasing punctuation.

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The original sparks that supernova-ed a whole industry that ludicrously although successfully reinvented both the wheel and how to become a music-free rockstar.

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Pair of big shots talking shit on modern radio like normal while acting like they don´t actually put their pants two legs at a time.

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Uneventful eye-thriller meant to box-office fail despite helpful bad intentions. A film about film itself that looks immaculate but does not communicate well.

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Every TV commercial should be exactly this long and at least this fun not to just suck the blood out of our lifetime and cash.

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Evocative beyond repair dividing itself up with a greased-up tug-of-war between old and classic—both morbidly bound together with techno-dramatic ambiances.

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An indirect-listening that can beautifully rock just so long as one does not pay too much attention. A promising commercial knockoff-band that’s decent.

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Profound motion picture of short stature that proves itself large by showing with stunning, sympathetic sharpness how a pre-adolescent masochist jumps into intentional idiocy.

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“Hey, you guys: me, me, me, me, me, me, me, me, me, me, me, me, me, me, me, me, me. This movie is about me.”

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Rich and nerve-ended with high contrasts that slow-blend without wood, wind or ecclesiastical resistance underlining sudden silences the way jump-scare noises should.

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Childhood-scary, sating and harrowingly haunting. It bends the mind in all directions while stiffing the body with soul-breaking terror that is just awesome.

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Nerdy visuals and title aside this “autonomous sensory meridian response” video does reliably replay the perfect soundtrack for the thought-turbulent mind looking for clarity.

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Taut-tight effort from an established career-place where drums relentlessly support a steel-stringed trampoline for the instrumental human-voice to jump around ranges.

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A sand-box full of metal pellets that get strained out by the end of an album which cauterises all wounds in instrumental song-form.

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Popular-music covers tend to work their best when close to source material spawning thusly fresh spokes instead of an almost always shittier new wheel.

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Bass based arachno-rythmic techno stylings from Berlin that heavily drum the ear as a last vibration-stop coming from the rich underground shaking below.

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Everything more than just “alright, alright, alright” for the first hour up until religion and Huston, Texas are brought up as buzz-killing subjects respectively.

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The slow turning sonic framework of experienced formulas firming each other up in mature cooperation. A compound-track that for once does not sound condescending.

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Good bad-girl song-set that studiedly teases the strung-out listener with a sensually anaesthetic voice that slides gently while burning with revengeful lyrics.

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Time-honored period-film that simply and independently pulls off a believable vintage-vibe by bringing out big nuances out of very small-town things.

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Might be the worst sequel “ever to happen to a man or jew”, but its raunchy, manipulative heart still points generously in the right direction.

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There are mostly unusual suspects to be found in this dextrously hand-picked movie soundtrack with 1970´s era-evocative songs that feel mostly like synonyms.

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It sifts true, strong emotions through the punitive barriers of commercial expectancy—afloat from the then gouged-out Grounge that originally propelled this fallen angel.

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Upbeat melancholy raft-ride that´s full of genuine quirkiness and maritime-saltiness that feels bittersweet and soberly sad. Trumpeting ever so slightly while floating around.

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Deep, directional bass-foundation that hunters & gathers multiple singing flavors while firmly but timidly fermenting basically the same rhythm with the warmest of distortions.

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Death is on the air mainlining darkness into the mainstream through a polyphonic set of prodigious sounds and patterns that gracefully stumble out of adolescence.

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Transgressive-coersive effort that industrially scatters itself all over the place, deep-synthetizing just about anything standing its way while a versatile Sam Kinison sings.

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Intense sounds and rhythms that are like feeling the beating pulse of several types of factory machines at work with a subwoofer-ed up stethoscope.

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The automatic acid rain that comes with being a voiceless victim with no other choice but gravitational travesty. A perspective-enforcing film of monumental caliber.

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Circular uphill post-amnesiac ride that prints itself out both in color and black & white while each new layer diagonally help us to remember.

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The strict beauty of synchronised flight of heart & mind held together by sound in tragic camaraderie. Picking through the riffs of death & decency.

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Self-policing pain in the ass by design that’s addictive once text-fire gets caught and used to burn the bullshit we all carry around.

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A familiar pub vibe while being on the other side of that shiny Rockstar mirror with a guy, who might otherwise get on your nerves.

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2000s Master Of Puppets – hate dripping riff monument and post 90s Metal anthem.
Celebrated likewise by ‚True‘ metalheads and prog snobs. All killer, no filler!

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The audio form of this book never flees aways from emotional attachment while the author reads his own words with out-louding choked-up laughter.

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Love the finger-ending and visual setup with Donald Duck and J. S. B. Somehow you’ve made the first vertical video that doesn’t look wrong.

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What makes this interview between these two public strangers stand out is that no one in it is either acting out nor being played with.

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Take basic hardcore formulas, crush it with industrial creepiness and put it back together. You either love or hate Frankenstein´s vicious monster. So eat shit!

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The Robbin Williams of aging rock & roll douchebags with enough acid juice to rise and fall a room full of medieval nuns into rebellion.

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A bright flame of a thespian toddler that thanks to the divine intervention of editing can do no wrong when melting the Arriflex lenses away.

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Gorgeous mind and eyes stunning work of art –
A life/ death downward spiraling journey into wildest LSD fever dreams in form of groundbreaking comic imagination.

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“The centuries old vampire Count Dracula comes to England to seduce his barrister Jonathan Harker’s fiancée Mina Murray and inflict havoc in the foreign land.”

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Pioneering-gross, weird and wonderful. Perfect for adults who grew up with Tom & Jerry, Tex Avery, Film Noir, the Rat Pack and classical music.

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‚Ok, Computertomography‘
by Radiologyhead (Bonn, Germany)
With songs like ‚Paranoid Patient‘, ‚Every organ in its right Place’, ‚Pharma Police‘, ‚MRT Dreaming‘ & the Übersong ,Sleep‘!

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Big jawed, birdlike masks shrouded in long coats and mist hold a hypnotic guitar-chanting mess of instrumental long-drawn sound corridors into magnetizing darkness.

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Glorious continuation to the perfect film that Goodfellas (1987) already is, magnifying the produce from every technical artistic prowess displayed before into another real story.

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Strong return of hipsterish Post-Black metal band full of emotions.
Passive aggressive vocals, tremulous rage and randomly outstanding sad as joyful guitar solo-doodling.

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Mean vocals begin this brutal album – add grim downtuned guitars/ blistering drums in unconventional time signatures and unexpected mood shifts.
Djent 2018 sounds like this!

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Imagine a massive car crash with hysteric noises full of squeaking metal and deafening violence.
Frontierer show this live as on LP with chaotic calculation.

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Leave your prejudices at home, metalheads!
‘WOKMN’ fuses harsh brutality, chilling saxy (!) parts in unimaginable wonderful/ cringy harmony.
Hipsters Death Metal-Tasting 2018!

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Too much self-complacent singing and riffing around—sluggish and resigned at times when Wanderlust is expected. Decent background music but nothing like albums past.

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Immoral rationalizations put together in high intensity dogma-trafficking areas can only page you so far… Ask the right questions and meaning will historically align.

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