Category Archives: Chloe’s Reviews
Directed by Brad Silberling
Written by Sherri Stoner & Deanna Oliver
Why doesn’t anyone ever talk about how great Casper is? Yes, the 90’s Casper, starring Bill Pullman and Christina Ricci. I don’t know about you, but as a kid I fucking loved this movie. But I feel like if I were to bring it up to people as a legitimately good film, they’d laugh at me. Well, laugh away if you want, because I revisited last night to make sure it holds up, and it turns out it absolutely does.
Written by Thomas Hedley Jr. and Joe Eszterhas
Directed by Adrian Lyne
When mentioning having recently seen this for the first time, more than anything I hear, “Too bad you didn’t see it in the ‘80‘s—it was great then, but now it doesn’t hold up.” Even people who like it seem to only like it ironically, for its leg warmers and soundtrack. Few take it seriously—it’s got a 30% on Rotten Tomatoes, and the screenplay got a Razzie.
Did we see the same movie? Because to me, Flashdance is a cohesive and universally relatable work of art. In fact, I was so impressed by it that I watched it again a couple days later. What gives?
I think it has to do with it being so iconic to its era that people have become blind to its timeless themes and legitimate beauty. It’s mistaken for a glamorous romp about a girl with high heels on, when really, it’s the struggle of a woman alternating between bare feet and work boots. It’s remembered as an ‘80’s movie’ for silly, surface reasons, but really, it’s a human movie.
The Wind Rises (2013)
Written and Directed by Hayao Miyazaki
Dear Prospective Viewers Of The Wind Rises,
I know what you’re wondering—which version to see. Both are out now, some theaters even playing both, and you don’t want to spend your money on the wrong one.
Well, I’ve seen both, and I’m here to help.
Tiny Furniture (2010)
Written & Directed by Lena Dunham
About a year ago, the editor of this site wrote a scathing critique of Lena Dunham entitled The Empress, Quite Literally, Has No Clothes. A few months before reading it, I’d made the transition from engaged college student with supposed direction to a member of Lena’s target demographic—single, 20-something, stagnating in a “post-graduate delirium” as she puts it, working a minimum wage job and living with a single parent. A “lost girl”, as Cody puts it in his piece.
Until very recently, I’d avoided watching Tiny Furniture because I didn’t want to deal with any of the three possible outcomes of me doing so:
- Liking it, and being berated by my peers.
- Disliking it, and being annoyed that I wasted my time.
- Hating it, and agreeing with Cody that it is in fact detrimental to its audience.
I didn’t need any of those stresses in my life, especially when I was so busy having such a “hard time” trying to “figure things out” (as she puts it, over and over). But after a year of being in the position that the film attempts to depict, the subject matter and controversy finally seduced me and, with the aid of a few beers, I jumped into bed with it.
Directed by Cody Clarke
IMDb Synopsis: An experimental documentary in which fly-on-the-wall footage of the lives of sixteen aspiring actresses from NYC is collaged to form a day in the life of one aspiring actress—each ‘playing’ a different aspect of the woman. Through this unconventional approach, filmmaker Cody Clarke has painted a visual poem; an ode to both the beauty and the pain of solitude.
When I go to a museum with friends, unless I’m really close to them already, I act weird. I move from piece to piece quickly, afraid of blocking someone’s view. I make awkward quips. I find myself concerned with whether the person next to me knows more or less about the art than I do. And I almost certainly never read the plaques, although I pretend to. All this doesn’t happen on purpose—it’s an instinctive, self-defeating defense mechanism, and it’s embarrassing and insulting to the art.
This same insecurity happens to pretty much everyone I’ve watched a Cody Clarke movie with. I know this, because I’ve forced a lot of friends to watch them.