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  • Poor Things. I thought The Lobster would be the high watermark for weird films I saw this year, but nope. Artistically excellent, had something to say, a few hilarious moments, and was refreshingly strange.

  • The worst movie of this week's list if watched in many of the previous weeks would have been situated at the top; what a lineup!

    My Dinner with Andre (1981)
    My god. This enchanting, verisimilitudinous evening had me so spellbound, I desired to be a fly on the wall for every future conversation. Malle masterfully navigates the treacherous straits, avoiding both pretentiousness and the shallows of pseudo-intellectuals. It’s a film composited of the now rare authentic discourse without a hint of artifice or speciousness. There is no grand message being proselytized, just a stark tête-à-tête of two minds shown in this perfectly imperfect cinematic marvel.

    Naked (1993)
    A ravaging, unflinching descent into societal decay embodied by a loquacious nihilist known simply as Johnny who verbally eviscerates the perceived vacuities around him like a feral, intellectual schoolyard bully. This is a raw, ugly world, a X-ray exposing the festering wound of our collective spiritual homelessness. Johnny isn't just lost; he's the furious, articulate symptom of a world that discarded him, and which he, in turn, discards with vicious futility. The supporting cast is likewise absolutely brilliant. My singular gripe is the Machiavellian Jeremy subplot did not come to a head yet it barely dims this bleak, brilliant, essential mirror.

    The Perks of Being a Wallflower (2012)
    "We are infinite." Rarely does a tagline resonate with such aptness. This beautiful coming-of-age tale flirts with familiar clichés yet endearingly embraces and transforms into a poignant film of self-discovery and healing. While the climatic revelation stumbles slightly, it does not diminish the film's hopeful tone. 

    A Man Escaped (1956)
    This film strips prison escape to its stark, exacting essence, unclad of superfluity, with every sound purposeful, shots only necessary, dialogue and voiceover laconic. The palpable tension stems not from visible villains, but from the solitary, agonizing precision of the attempt. The antithesis of Michael Bay, a symphony of restraint where silence screams louder than any explosion.

    Harold and Maude (1971)
    Young Harold, morbidly fixated on death finds unlikely kinship in ancient Maude's - possibly cinema's eldest manic pixie dream girl - vitalic whimsy. Eccentric, hopeful absurdism is its crux and its deliberate juxtaposition has a certain charm that earns its cult status. Understandably divisive, undeniably unique.

    I unabashedly spent the most amount of time writing this week's reviews, hopefully doing justice to these marvellous films.

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