Review: Hot Summer Nights (2018)

Posted on July 28, 2018 by sheila

My review of Hot Summer Nights is now up at Rogerebert.com.

Posted in Movies | Tagged , | Leave a comment

R.I.P. Shinobu Hashimoto

Posted on July 20, 2018 by sheila

Screenwriter Shinobu Hashimoto, whose collaborations with Akira Kurosawa still have the power to shock and inspire today, has just died at the age of 100.

His first IMDB credit was the script for Rashomon, which is mind-boggling the more you think about it. It’s one of the most influential scripts ever written – especially when you consider how much it has been imitated, and how Rashomon itself – the concept of one story being told from many different points of view – has worked its way into the common lexicon.

Their collaboration continued, and Hashimoto worked with Kurosawa on 8 different screenplays spanning a 20-year period…

…including major international hit The Seven Samurai – which of course has spawned many many remakes/spin-offs – to this DAY – and the quieter Ikiru (which, in my own humble opinion, is one of the best films ever made – with certainly one of the best final scenes AND final shots.) I wrote about Ikiru here. Hashimoto also wrote the great Throne of Blood, The Hidden Fortress, and … the list goes on and on.

For a far more indepth obituary, I highly recommend the one in The New York Times, by Margalit Fox. I love how Fox ends the obit. Well-played.

Rest in peace, sir!

Posted in Directors, Movies, RIP, writers | Tagged , | 3 Comments

Dynamic Duo #16

Posted on July 16, 2018 by sheila

Elvis Presley and Barbara Stanwyck.

This post is a double-whammy since it’s Barbara Stanwyck’s birthday today. If you haven’t read Dan Callahan’s biography, then you really must (and I’m not just saying that because he quotes me in it): Barbara Stanwyck: The Miracle Woman.

Posted in Actors | Tagged , , | 4 Comments

The Storming of the Bastille: “Let conflagration rage; of whatsoever is combustible!”

Posted on July 14, 2018 by sheila

July 14, 1789

Thomas Carlyle, in his majestic, overwrought and intimidating The French Revolution, describes the Siege of the Bastille in frenzied and apocalyptic-doomsday prose. You can hear Carlyle’s primal fear of the Crowd. The Crowd is simultaneously abstract and all-too-real.

To describe this Siege of the Bastille (thought to be one of the most important in history) perhaps transcends the talent of mortals. Could one but, after infinite reading, get to understand so much as the plan of the building! But there is open Esplanade, at the end of the Rue Saint- Antoine; there are such Forecourts, Cour Avance, Cour de l’Orme, arched Gateway (where Louis Tournay now fights); then new drawbridges, dormant- bridges, rampart-bastions, and the grim Eight Towers: a labyrinthic Mass, high-frowning there, of all ages from twenty years to four hundred and twenty;–beleaguered, in this its last hour, as we said, by mere Chaos come again! Ordnance of all calibres; throats of all capacities; men of all plans, every man his own engineer: seldom since the war of Pygmies and Cranes was there seen so anomalous a thing. Half-pay Elie is home for a suit of regimentals; no one would heed him in coloured clothes: half-pay Hulin is haranguing Gardes Francaises in the Place de Greve. Frantic Patriots pick up the grape-shots; bear them, still hot (or seemingly so), to the Hotel-de-Ville:–Paris, you perceive, is to be burnt! Flesselles is ‘pale to the very lips’ for the roar of the multitude grows deep. Paris wholly has got to the acme of its frenzy; whirled, all ways, by panic madness. At every street-barricade, there whirls simmering, a minor whirlpool,–strengthening the barricade, since God knows what is coming; and all minor whirlpools play distractedly into that grand Fire-Mahlstrom which is lashing round the Bastille.

And so it lashes and it roars. Cholat the wine-merchant has become an impromptu cannoneer. See Georget, of the Marine Service, fresh from Brest, ply the King of Siam’s cannon. Singular (if we were not used to the like): Georget lay, last night, taking his ease at his inn; the King of Siam’s cannon also lay, knowing nothing of him, for a hundred years. Yet now, at the right instant, they have got together, and discourse eloquent music. For, hearing what was toward, Georget sprang from the Brest Diligence, and ran. Gardes Francaises also will be here, with real artillery: were not the walls so thick!–Upwards from the Esplanade, horizontally from all neighbouring roofs and windows, flashes one irregular deluge of musketry,– without effect. The Invalides lie flat, firing comparatively at their ease from behind stone; hardly through portholes, shew the tip of a nose. We fall, shot; and make no impression!

Let conflagration rage; of whatsoever is combustible! Guard-rooms are burnt, Invalides mess-rooms. A distracted ‘Peruke-maker with two fiery torches’ is for burning ‘the saltpetres of the Arsenal;’–had not a woman run screaming; had not a Patriot, with some tincture of Natural Philosophy, instantly struck the wind out of him (butt of musket on pit of stomach), overturned barrels, and stayed the devouring element. A young beautiful lady, seized escaping in these Outer Courts, and thought falsely to be de Launay’s daughter, shall be burnt in de Launay’s sight; she lies swooned on a paillasse: but again a Patriot, it is brave Aubin Bonnemere the old soldier, dashes in, and rescues her. Straw is burnt; three cartloads of it, hauled thither, go up in white smoke: almost to the choking of Patriotism itself; so that Elie had, with singed brows, to drag back one cart; and Reole the ‘gigantic haberdasher’ another. Smoke as of Tophet; confusion as of Babel; noise as of the Crack of Doom!

Blood flows, the aliment of new madness. The wounded are carried into houses of the Rue Cerisaie; the dying leave their last mandate not to yield till the accursed Stronghold fall. And yet, alas, how fall? The walls are so thick! Deputations, three in number, arrive from the Hotel-de-Ville; Abbe Fouchet (who was of one) can say, with what almost superhuman courage of benevolence.These wave their Town-flag in the arched Gateway; and stand, rolling their drum; but to no purpose. In such Crack of Doom, de Launay cannot hear them, dare not believe them: they return, with justified rage, the whew of lead still singing in their ears. What to do? The Firemen are here, squirting with their fire-pumps on the Invalides’ cannon, to wet the touchholes; they unfortunately cannot squirt so high; but produce only clouds of spray. Individuals of classical knowledge propose catapults. Santerre, the sonorous Brewer of the Suburb Saint-Antoine, advises rather that the place be fired, by a ‘mixture of phosphorous and oil-of-turpentine spouted up through forcing pumps:’ O Spinola-Santerre, hast thou the mixture ready? Every man his own engineer! And still the fire-deluge abates not; even women are firing, and Turks; at least one woman (with her sweetheart), and one Turk. Gardes Francaises have come: real cannon, real cannoneers. Usher Maillard is busy; half-pay Elie, half- pay Hulin rage in the midst of thousands.

How the great Bastille Clock ticks (inaudible) in its Inner Court there, at its ease, hour after hour; as if nothing special, for it or the world, were passing! It tolled One when the firing began; and is now pointing towards Five, and still the firing slakes not.–Far down, in their vaults, the seven Prisoners hear muffled din as of earthquakes; their Turnkeys answer vaguely.

Wo to thee, de Launay, with thy poor hundred Invalides! Broglie is distant, and his ears heavy: Besenval hears, but can send no help. One poor troop of Hussars has crept, reconnoitring, cautiously along the Quais, as far as the Pont Neuf. “We are come to join you,” said the Captain; for the crowd seems shoreless. A large-headed dwarfish individual, of smoke- bleared aspect, shambles forward, opening his blue lips, for there is sense in him; and croaks: “Alight then, and give up your arms!” the Hussar- Captain is too happy to be escorted to the Barriers, and dismissed on parole. Who the squat individual was? Men answer, it is M. Marat, author of the excellent pacific Avis au Peuple! Great truly, O thou remarkable Dogleech, is this thy day of emergence and new birth: and yet this same day come four years–!–But let the curtains of the future hang.

What shall de Launay do? One thing only de Launay could have done: what he said he would do. Fancy him sitting, from the first, with lighted taper, within arm’s length of the Powder-Magazine; motionless, like old Roman Senator, or bronze Lamp-holder; coldly apprising Thuriot, and all men, by a slight motion of his eye, what his resolution was:–Harmless he sat there, while unharmed; but the King’s Fortress, meanwhile, could, might, would, or should, in nowise, be surrendered, save to the King’s Messenger: one old man’s life worthless, so it be lost with honour; but think, ye brawling canaille, how will it be when a whole Bastille springs skyward!–In such statuesque, taper-holding attitude, one fancies de Launay might have left Thuriot, the red Clerks of the Bazoche, Cure of Saint- Stephen and all the tagrag-and-bobtail of the world, to work their will.

And yet, withal, he could not do it. Hast thou considered how each man’s heart is so tremulously responsive to the hearts of all men; hast thou noted how omnipotent is the very sound of many men? How their shriek of indignation palsies the strong soul; their howl of contumely withers with unfelt pangs? The Ritter Gluck confessed that the ground-tone of the noblest passage, in one of his noblest Operas, was the voice of the Populace he had heard at Vienna, crying to their Kaiser: Bread! Bread! Great is the combined voice of men; the utterance of their instincts, which are truer than their thoughts: it is the greatest a man encounters, among the sounds and shadows, which make up this World of Time. He who can resist that, has his footing some where beyond Time. De Launay could not do it. Distracted, he hovers between the two; hopes in the middle of despair; surrenders not his Fortress; declares that he will blow it up, seizes torches to blow it up, and does not blow it. Unhappy old de Launay, it is the death-agony of thy Bastille and thee! Jail, Jailoring and Jailor, all three, such as they may have been, must finish.

For four hours now has the World-Bedlam roared: call it the World-Chimaera, blowing fire! The poor Invalides have sunk under their battlements, or rise only with reversed muskets: they have made a white flag of napkins; go beating the chamade, or seeming to beat, for one can hear nothing. The very Swiss at the Portcullis look weary of firing; disheartened in the fire-deluge: a porthole at the drawbridge is opened, as by one that would speak. See Huissier Maillard, the shifty man! On his plank, swinging over the abyss of that stone-Ditch; plank resting on parapet, balanced by weight of Patriots,–he hovers perilous: such a Dove towards such an Ark! Deftly, thou shifty Usher: one man already fell; and lies smashed, far down there, against the masonry! Usher Maillard falls not: deftly, unerring he walks, with outspread palm. The Swiss holds a paper through his porthole; the shifty Usher snatches it, and returns. Terms of surrender: Pardon, immunity to all! Are they accepted?–“Foi d’officier, On the word of an officer,” answers half-pay Hulin,–or half- pay Elie, for men do not agree on it, “they are!” Sinks the drawbridge,– Usher Maillard bolting it when down; rushes-in the living deluge: the Bastille is fallen! Victoire! La Bastille est prise!”

Oh, and it’s also my dear brother’s birthday. So happy birthday, Bren!!

Posted in On This Day | Tagged , , | 2 Comments

Review: Eighth Grade: Extraordinary. Don’t miss it.

Posted on July 13, 2018 by sheila

Eighth Grade, directed by 27-year-old Bo Burnham, is about an 8th grade girl during her final week of middle school. It’s extraordinary for many reasons, the main one being Burnham is a man. Normally men have done “coming of age” films about boys. That’s their “way in” because they know it, they’ve lived it. There’s nothing wrong with that. Bo Burnham, though, has said that when he started doing research for the film, watching kids’ videos on Youtube, “The boys were talking about Minecraft and the girls were talking about their souls.” He felt that girls were engaged with deep questions – earlier than boys – and that intrigued him. He ALSO said – and I love this – that he wanted to AVOID being too closely attached to his main subject – this is NOT a movie about his own boyhood. And so making her a girl would help him avoid that, because he knows nothing about being a 13-year-old girl, and BECAUSE of that, all he had to do was listen to how girls talk about themselves, listen to the 13-year-old actress Elsie Fisher playing the lead role. Let HER lead the way. The fact that it works so well – that women are seeing this film and feeling such a queasy recognition of their own Tween years – is a credit to Bo Burnham’s empathy.

My review of Eighth Grade is now up at Rogerebert.com.

This is a terrific interview with Bo Burnham over on Ebert.com, which gives you a real sense of who he is as a person, his interests, his engagement, his generosity.

Posted in Movies | Tagged , , | 4 Comments

Dynamic Duo #15

Posted on July 12, 2018 by sheila

Debbie Harry and Lester Bangs, Coney Island, 1976

Posted in Music, writers | Tagged , | 2 Comments

Review: Gauguin: Voyage to Tahiti (2018)

Posted on July 11, 2018 by sheila

Meh.

My review.

Posted in Movies | Tagged , , , | Leave a comment

Flick Lit: August 2018 issue of Sight & Sound

Posted on July 10, 2018 by sheila

I’m very happy to make my “debut” in the new issue of Sight & Sound – available on newsstands now (or via digital subscription). In their cover feature, “Flick Lit,” 100 critics weigh in on 100 novels about the movies. I chose to write about Joan Didion’s Play It As It Lays. You can check out the Table of Contents here.

Posted in Books, Movies | Tagged , | 2 Comments

Supernatural: Season 3, Episode 6; “Red Sky at Morning”

Posted on July 5, 2018 by sheila

Directed by Cliff Bole
Written by Laurence Andries

So let’s get this out of the way: I know they basically “disowned” this episode by having Chuck refer to the “bad writing”. I know Eric Kripke has said it’s one of his least favorites. I’ve said this many times before, but now we’re finally AT the episode, so I will say it again: I DON’T CARE. I have seen people say “well, you know even THEY didn’t like ‘Red Sky'” – as though you’re not ALLOWED to like it because the people involved didn’t like it. Of course you don’t have to like it but I am not going to let THEM tell me which episodes I “get” to like. That’s not how art works. You made this thing, it’s out in the universe now, it’s no longer yours. It’s MINE.

I won’t make too many claims in its favor. Much of it is super-dumb, and the one-handed sailor with the long wet hair and the Ozzy-eye-makeup is embarrassing. (Not AS bad as the Renaissance artist in love with the nun who exploded another nun out of her backside. Nothing is as bad as THAT.) The treatment of Gert is unnecessarily hostile (in one moment in particular), although they got a lot of humor out of it (including one visual gag which makes me laugh every time I see it). Some of the dialogue is like … “what?” …(which Dean says, in a state of total confusion, THREE times in the episode – I love this: he is completely behind the eight-ball. Bela throws him COMPLETELY off). But I love it and its slightly off-kilter quality is in its favor. Like: “Dean …. you gotta relax.” That’s not really Supernatural-ese but I like it a whole lot. The argument between Sam and Dean is stale (but this is a season full of the same. damn. argument – so I sympathize). However, parts of the episode have a freshness of style and mood I welcome on the show. They let their hair down. It’s openly silly. (Not a criticism.) Yes, it takes place in a 1930s screwball world, with high-class parties and champagne and yachts and people pretending to be married like it’s a sex farce with mistaken identities. But Supernatural has visited many different worlds. There’s a sexy loopiness to “Red Sky at Morning” which, frankly, I wish the show indulged in more.

Continue reading →

Posted in Television | Tagged , , , , | 46 Comments

June 2018 Viewing Diary

Posted on July 1, 2018 by sheila

This viewing diary is amusing to me,. This month has been so full, with mostly bad things (the world/national situation as well as some family awfulness) … and I got a gig early in the month which then took up most of my time. Broken up by going to protests and dealing with my family. So I look at this as a whole and there’s an obvious moment where the project stopped, and you can see what I turned to for relief and relaxation once my schedule cleared up. This is a perfect snapshot of my life. This is what obsession looks like.

En el Séptimo Día (2018; d. Jim McKay)
I loved this movie SO much. It’s having a limited theatrical release. So keep your eyes peeled for it. I reviewed for Ebert.

November 13: Attack on Paris (2018; d. Gédéon Naudet, Jules Naudet)
This documentary min-series, on Netflix, is fantastic. The Naudet brothers were the ones who did the 2002 documentary 9/11. Seeing it in 2002, when we all were still suffering from PTSD – an entire city with PTSD – was such a powerful upsetting experience. I don’t think people who didn’t live here quite GET how long it took for us to move on. (This was partly because the cleanup took forever AND it was 15 years before a building went up in the hole downtown.) Anyway, it’s many years later now and the Naudet brothers’ style and technique have matured. Attack on Paris is first-rate. Interviews with victims and bystanders. Interviews with first responders, dispatchers. It is very upsetting. And ENRAGING. This comment, from a firefighter, just killed me:

Hearts Beat Loud (2018; d. Brett Haley)
There’s a lot to love here. I reviewed for Ebert.

My Next Guest Needs No Introduction: David Letterman and Howard Stern (2018; d. Michael Bonfiglio)
I love Howard. I’ve always loved Howard. And I love their relationship. If you’ve been following along over the years, you know there’s an intensity of identification that almost makes the men uncomfortable. They’re always THIS CLOSE to falling in each other’s arms and saying “I LOVE YOU, MAN” and actually at times they HAVE blurted that out. When Howard went to bat for Letterman during the whole Jay Leno/Conan debacle – it was thrilling. Howard was on a MISSION. He hated Jay Leno so much he literally talked of nothing else for a year and a half. So to see them together – in this format – was so satisfying. Letterman’s interview with Barack Obama was the best of the series so far, but the Stern one is close behind.

The Magician (1959; d. Ingmar Bergman)
It will probably be obvious from this point forward that I was, how you say, working on something.

Sawdust and Tinsel (1953; d. Ingmar Bergman)
We’re early here, but you can see his repertory forming: Harriet Andersson (who made such a huge splash in Summer with Monika) and Gunnar Björnstrand … both of whom worked with Bergman time and time again.

Summer with Monika (1953; d. Ingmar Bergman)
This made Harriet Andersson a star. And you can see why. She is a total phenom. And she kept getting better and better and better …

A Lesson in Love (1954; d. Ingmar Bergman)
Eva Dahlbeck is INCREDIBLE. She can do high farce, she can do tragedy, she’s phenomenal. And Gunnar Björnstrand again.

Dreams (1955; d. Ingmar Bergman)
Another great performance from Eva Dahlbeck, and she’s paired up with an equally great Harriet Andersson.

Smiles of a Summer Night (1955; d. Ingmar Bergman)
This was the one that brought Bergman international fame.

Wild Strawberries (1957; d. Ingmar Bergman)
Haunting. I’ve seen this film so many times and still … the scene where the three teenage hitchhiker-Beat-generation kids serenade him at his window, I well up with tears. Also: David Lynch and Ingmar Bergman are the only two directors who can film a dream sequence and have it actually feel like a dream.

The Seventh Seal (1957; d. Ingmar Bergman)
Another one I’ve seen a million times, and I always forget how funny it is.

The Devil’s Eye (1960; d. Ingmar Bergman)
Don Juan emerges from Hell to wreak havoc. And he does. I love Bibi.

Through a Glass Darkly (1961; d. Ingmar Bergman)
The first in Bergman’s “The Silence of God” trilogy, each one a masterpiece in their own specific way. Harriet Andersson gives one of the greatest performances of all time here.

Winter Light (1963; d. Ingmar Bergman)
2nd in the trilogy. Absolutely ruthless. If you’ve seen Paul Schrader’s latest – First Reformed, you would pick up on the parallels. Schrader just puts it all out there: it’s an homage. The pastor can’t hear God’s voice. He doesn’t even believe anymore. Gunnar Björnstrand plays the pastor and the great Ingrid Thulin plays the schoolteacher in love with him. Hard to watch. But essential.

The Silence (1963; d. Ingmar Bergman)
The final film in the trilogy. Ingrid Thulin is on another fucking plane. Most actresses don’t go NEAR the areas she dives into willingly. To do Winter Light and Silence in the same year? Get the fuck outta here.

All These Women (1964; d. Ingmar Bergman)
Bergman’s first film in color. It’s so ridiculous you can’t believe it exists. I know it’s generally considered to be Bergman’s worst, but it makes me laugh out loud. It’s really dumb!

Persona (1966; d. Ingmar Bergman)
Iconic. Two of the great all-time performances here. I saw it first in college when I was studying acting and remember thinking, panicked, “Okay, I can never see THIS again because how can I have the courage to even THINK I could be an actress when there are people out there who are THIS good?”

High Society (1956; d. Charles Walters)
Watching this in the middle of the Bergman marathon was disorienting to say the least. The film was made at the time Bergman was making his first films and they are from totally different universes. I wrote about this one for Film Comment.

Shame (1968; d. Ingmar Bergman)
Very frightening, filmed with hand-held documentary urgency. A movie about the terror of war. Liv Ullmann and Max von Sydow are amazing.

The Passion of Anna (1969; d. Ingmar Bergman)
Intense. Liv Ullmann, Bibi Andersson, Max von Sydow … a movie about suffering, honesty, love, torment. You know, typical Bergman.

The Rite (1969; d. Ingmar Bergman)
A television movie. With Ingrid Thulin, again. This mysterious film has some Godardian elements in it – there’s a meta quality to a lot of it, plus the sense that it all takes place in a Kafka-esque world. A terrifying bureaucracy is in charge and nobody knows what it’s about, or what it wants.

The King (2018; d. Eugene Jarecki)
Elvis fans are really mad about this. I understand. I do. And I think many of the critiques of Elvis are wrong. Jarecki was struggling to put it all together. You can FEEL it’s not entirely put together. He’s reaching. But, from my perspective, this is why it’s a powerful piece of work that basically underlines the feeling that Elvis is bigger than anybody else – his posthumous “fame” goes way WAY beyond “fame” – it is its own unique phenomenon. It’s hard to picture another entertainment figure big enough to even warrant a documentary like this. Elvis is all-encompassing. He is a metaphor, a symbol. The film definitely has its issues, and I far prefer HBO’s The Searcher (my review here) – but I found The King very interesting, even with its flaws. My review at Ebert here. Also: to the gearheads out there? This is one you won’t want to miss.

Paterno (2018; d. Barry Levinson)
I’ve heard some people say this HBO film is letting Paterno off the hook by showing his thoughts and feelings (as opposed to … painting him as a total villain? Which, okay, if you’re writing an op-ed column, sure, but art isn’t an op-ed column.) Besides, the film doesn’t at ALL let him off the hook. As portrayed by Al Pacino, this is a man so focused on football he can’t see anything else, he dismissed stuff in front of him, he refused to even read the “dossier” about what went on … he showed an amazing lack of curiosity about ANY of it. It takes place during the week the news broke – the week that ended with Paterno being fired. What makes this worth seeing is Pacino’s performance. Playing Paterno doesn’t allow Pacino to do the things Pacino loves to do: throw tantrums, make a spectacle of his emotions, shout and carry on. He can’t do ANY of that here. His character work and emotional work here is really REALLY good.

Cries and Whispers (1972; d. Ingmar Bergman)
I saw this one in college and was completely traumatized by it. Ingrid Thulin, Liv Ullmann and Harriet Andersson. In that house with the red walls.

The Long Riders (1980; d. Walter Hill)
Charlie and I went to go see this gorgeous film at the Metrograph on Father’s Day. Charlie’s father died last year. We both miss our fathers so much. Charlie’s dad loved The Long Riders. It’s a movie filled with brothers: Dennis and Randy Quaid, Keith, David and Robert Carradine, James and Stacy Keach, Christopher and Nicholas Guest. It could have been a gimmick. It’s not at all. With fantastic three-dimensional female characters who play very crucial roles, played by, among others, Pamela Reed (I LOVE HER) and Fran Ryan.

Autumn Sonata (1978; d. Ingmar Bergman)
My friend Farran wrote the booklet essay for Criterion’s release of this claustrophobic emotional mother-daughter film. Ingrid Bergman and Liv Ullmann face off, unforgettably. It’s excruciating.

Hereditary (2018; d. Ari Aster)
I was so looking forward to this. It took me about half an hour to realize the movie was bad. Even Ann Dowd couldn’t save it. I adore Toni Colette but she is not good here. Her mania and frenzy as the movie went on felt pushed, and empty. It was flailing and general. And the final scene was laughable. Every year there’s a movie everyone seems to love and I go, “Are you kidding me?” I don’t want to discourage anyone from seeing it, but I had to force myself to stay til the end and was rewarded by that ridiculous final scene.

Supernatural, Season 3, episode 5 “Bedtime Stories” (2007; d. Mike Rohl)
Glorious fun. I just re-capped it. Another way I let my hair down after the Bergman marathon (which, honestly, I am going to miss terribly.)

Supernatural, Season 3, episode 6 “Red Sky at Morning” (2007; d. Cliff Bole)
The moment that started it all. I wrote my first lengthy post about the show because of this moment.

Supernatural, Season 3, episode 7 “Fresh Blood” (2007; d. Kim Manners)
Oh Kim Manners. How I miss you. You knew how to film their faces. Because you LOVED their faces.

Supernatural, Season 3, episode 8 “A Very Supernatural Christmas” (2007; d. J. Miller Tobin)
Too much. No matter how many times I see it, it is always TOO MUCH.

Supernatural, Season 3, episode 9 “Malleus Maleficarum” (2008; d. Robert Singer)
Okay, so I was looking for a gif and I discovered this one and now I need to take a nap.

Supernatural, Season 3, episode 10 “Dream a Little Dream of Me” (2008; d. Steve Boyum)
One of my favorite episodes in the whole series. This scene never ceases to amaze: because there are two of him, and you can always tell which is which, because his work is so specific.

Supernatural, Season 3, episode 11 “Mystery Spot” (2008; d. Kim Manners)
Season 3, right? It’s one great episode after another.

Supernatural, Season 3, episode 12 “Jus in Bello” (2008; d. Philip Sgriccia)
Agent Hendrickson! Lilith! Virgins! Demons on the loose. And this moment. Which is so so funny to me, especially the moment when he HEARS the punchline before he says it, and then can’t stop himself from saying it, even though it is SO inappropriate.

Supernatural, Season 3, episode 13 “Ghostfacers” (2008; d. Philip Sgriccia)
Finally we get confirmation that these guys swear like sailors. I am always sad about Corbett every time. And this …

Supernatural, Season 3, episode 14 “Long Distance Call” (2008; d. Robert Singer)
Epic. Purely epic episode. The emotions coming up in Dean – via Jensen Ackles’ great sensitivity and intuition – the entire persona change when he’s on the phone with Dad … he literally swaps out his SOUL to the beaten-down little kid … it gives me goosebumps just thinking about it.

Supernatural, Season 3, episode 15 “Time Is on My Side” (2008; d. Charles Beeson)
I’m very sad there won’t be any angry sex after all. Because … this moment could go either way.

Supernatural, Season 3, episode 16 “No Rest for the Wicked” (2008; d. Kim Manners)
I will never ever EVER forget my first time watching this episode and seeing this moment …

Supernatural, Season 4, episode 1 “Lazarus Rising” (2008; d. Kim Manners)
Switchover to the Red camera. I am not technical enough to explain WHY the camera is so good, although the proof is in the pudding, which is the images. Season 4 is the most glamorous season in the series. The images are so stark and painterly and clear and romantic it almost hurts to look at them. You can see every freckle, it’s almost like you can touch his skin. Very very tactile camera. This is what the Red can do. Like …

Supernatural, Season 4, episode 2 “Are You There, God? It’s Me, Dean Winchester” (2008; d. Philip Sgriccia)
God, this is a good season. Castiel. He’s so “other.” He’s frightening. I love in this scene how he says “we”. Never “I.” His identity is not individualized. He is part of a group. And part of his arc will be the slow separation from that “we” into an “I.”

Supernatural, Season 4, episode 3 “In the Beginning” (2008; d. Steve Boyum)
Watching this makes me really really mad at Andrew Dabb. I wish I wasn’t mad. I have to forget what he’s done to Mary in order to enjoy this. Look, Andrew: a woman can be a “badass” and also girlish and loving and SO into her man. She doesn’t have to suddenly become a chick with a fuck buddy wearing camo and having zero emotions in order to qualify as “badass.” Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.

Supernatural, Season 4, episode 4 “Metamorphosis” (2008; d. Kim Manners)
What an intense and accurate portrayal of what we now call “toxic masculinity.” THAT’S the monster in this one.

Posted in Monthly Viewing Diary, Movies, Television | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 28 Comments