The demise of the Western with its clear-cut values had left Peckinpah less able to define what America had become. The Osterman Weekend in some ways reflects Peckinpah's disillusionment at America's loss of direction. It's like Straw Dogs turned inside out. A man on his own turf confronted by his own friends. No longer the America that he had known as a boy and attempted to fix on film in such classics as Ride the High Country, The Wild Bunch…
This review may contain spoilers. I can handle the truth.
Fincher suffocates a batshit premise with his trademark severity and limited color palette, Reznor cranks out another bland ambient mess that will surely receive endless praise, and Tyler Perry kicks all sorts of ass. The notion that, by the film's own logic, a douchebag and a murderous, semi-omniscient (the only people she can't fool are fucking Ozark trash people, which, come on) supervillain deserve each other is supremely upsetting. And not in a fun way.
Go fuck yourself.
“Fake can be just as good.”
-Blonde Redhead, “Bipolar”
And people told me Certified Copy was opaque. This feels both more and less personal than that one. Less overtly romantic, sure, especially w/r/t the central relationships of both films. But here Kiarostami finds a sneakily understated kind of beauty in the languorous rhythms of his dialogue and the obfuscated (often by glass, but in several impressive instances by trees or a van's D-pillar and other such physical barriers) point of…