Tarkvosky's "Solaris" takes on so many deep seated philosophical questions at once that by the end of the film, the casual viewer may feel overwhelmed. It is a madness trip, an intellectual exercise, a visual piece, absurdism, a dramatic catharsis and an uncomfortable probing of the human self all at once. This is not "shut off your mind" stuff. The long and short of it: three scientists visit Solaris, a planet which seems to be an alternate reality, and suffer the consequences. Chris (really the main focus of the film), a scientist, is warned repeatedly by a colleague who suffered a mental breakdown on the station about how dangerous it is, but pays no heed. One commits suicide before the unfortunate Chris arrives. Hari, his wife who committed suicide when he left her years ago, appears and despite Chris' initial attempt to blast her in the space, is seemingly there to stay. Chris is warned by both men (a ruthless scientist and a drunk) that he is being deceived, and that she is not his real wife, but Hari seems to have feelings which are genuinely human despite being an illusion. There are awful scenes in which she splits apart, re-emerges painfully back into 'life', etc. All the while Chris engages in philosophical discussions about the worthy or unworthy nature of mankind, quoting Tolstoy and, of course, Dostoevsky. Some of it is drop dead funny, perhaps without intending to be: an air of absurdity overshadows everything taking place. When the two men on the ship with him decide that itss time Chris gave up the ghost and destroy Hari, he returns home and still seems to be a million miles away. We are not sure if he is sane in the last scene, which is frighteningly reminiscent. He is in slow motion, behaving like a man high on LSD. Will he ever regain his sanity? Was a part, at least, of Hari real? When she viewed his home videos with the 'original' Hari (among the scariest sequences in the film), why did she respond as if she knew? Tarkovsky skillfully keeps us dangling from his parapet. This is a kickass, disturbing movie.

First of all, do not watch this film if you have ADD. There are long, drawn out shots of fields, three men walking, and quirky discussions which many will find boring. I didn't. While this film is about many things at once, I found on reflection that (at least to me) "Stalker" is essentially about the ethical/non-ethical nature of notions like hope, redemption. The 'Zone' as it is termed is really a metaphor for what a human has to reach in his/her life to find metaphysical hope. In the end, that hope is judged (by the most likeable character out of the three) to be invalid, even morally wrong.

The meditative shots of fields alternate with shots of decay, destruction, and a "1984ish" state. These men remind one of some of Beckett's characters, behaving in absurd ways. But, perhaps the point is, this is an absurd world. A masterpiece that demands full attentiveness.

This film is terrifying. I expected some hoky fun when I rented it (judging from the cover), but then recalled that Stephen King had listed it (in "Danse Macabre") as one of the ten most frightening films he'd ever seen. All the same, I figured his memory must have gone foggy.

I was wrong. The plot, when laid out bare, sounds ridiculous. A rather ordinary, boring caretaker of a cemetery (accompanied by a hilarious 'Scottsman') happens to gain power over the fundamentals of life and death with a board that lays out the structure of the cemetery--where people are buried, have been buried, and will be buried. All this sounds absurd and very 1950's, yes, but it turns out well. You actually start believing it yourself and can feel the protagonist's anguish. The end is disappointing, but the buildup is more than worth it. Black pin, white pin, black pin, white pin.....

This is not the best horror movies I've ever seen, but one of the best films in terms of *atmosphere*. The frightening parts about it are less in the film itself than what the film suggests--the really psychotic point to which codependency can build, obsession, and a host of other disturbances, none of which involve the supernatural but suggest it. Along with the Vincent Price films he did, this is the best film you'll see that Roger Corman was involved in.

Luana Anders is, ironically, the strongest presence in this film. Thing is, she doesn't last very long, and the viewer isn't all that devastated when she does disappear. A scheming, money hungry witch, she preys on the co-morbidity of an elderly woman to the point of sadism. A young girl dies tragically at a young age. An Irish family living in Nowheresville idealizes her mysterious death to the point of madness. Someone is responsible, and we eventutally find out who. There are a few 'jump out of your seat scenes', one of them being the untimely (and grisly) death of Anders. It's been awhile since I've seen this film, but much of the imagery (dolls, truly 'demented' childhood memories, and the last exclamation by the ultimate culprit: "DON'T TOUCH THAT!") have remained with me. This is an odd blend, Corman and Coppola. A worthwhile old cinematic antique of misery.

If "Diabolique" influenced Hitchcock's "Psycho", one would have to say that the classic French film exceeds the 'classic' American slasher flick.

In a twisted and at times really confused turn of events, a shy schoolmarm teams up with her husband's mistress to kill him (or so we think). The husband is a real SOB, constantly bossing both of them around and treating his students like dogs. Since he is in a position of provincial power, however, his petty control games and short temper go unremarked upon. There are tones of lesbianism in this sleek thriller, with the wife and mistress and forming (*(it seems*) a strong bond in their hatred of the husband. The only lucid character we have is a private investigator who precipitates a tragedy, perhaps without knowing it. (Or is he in on it too?_

I won't spoil the rest of the film for the viewer, but it would be safe to say that this is one of the strangest plots I have ever encountered, and one of the most intriguing. We are confronted with weakness versus strength, good versus evil, and the standard collection of themes, but in a subtle, disturbing fashion. The last scene in the film, when a child comments on the schoolmarm's appearance in the school, is enough to leave one wondering whether there is yet another element at work which we have not yet seen. This is far better than "Psycho", although one can see the parallels. A must see.

This is not my favorite Bresson film, but it is one of them. Here Bresson shows every imaginable form of corruption and betrayal in order to display the tainting of innocence.

While I don't remember all the details (and there are many of them), the jist of the film has stayed with me. A level headed, blue collar man stops to get change from a store. He is working, driving his truck, doing nothing wrong. Unfortunately, he is simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. He receives bills from the shop which are counterfeit. Two young men, pressed for cash, had been in earlier and managed to pass the fake bills off as real ones. The point of this scene is that there is no point; this commonplace man does something that all of us have done a million times, and not only is his life destroyed as a result, he plays a significant part in that subsequent destruction. The film could be seen either as a tragic series of events with no sense behind them (again, Bresson puts the stress on meaninglessness) or as the potential criminal hiding within us all.

Sitting at a restaurant, the man pays for a meal with the false money he has been given. The waiter calls him a thief, and the man naturally takes offense, shoving the waiter into a table. These scenes, in which the spirit of revolt overcomes the man's rationality, are shot in still (as on the cover of the video itself), and are intended to represent the pride of innocence when encountered with injustice.

From there, everything goes seriously downhill. In an ironic, terrible twist, the man ends up in prison with one of the young hoodlums who help put him there. Having lost his family, his job, his reputation and his freedom, a silent fury (which we do not see until the end) builds in the man until he becomes a complete outsider, committing an unspeakable act at the end and confessing to it.

The extraordinary aspect of this piece by Bresson is that one cannot help but be haunted by the very viable and real possibility of these events. The only unbelievable part is the man's willingness to snap to such a degree. The irretrievability of the man's innocence, his life, and his ultimate fate is even more agonizing: nothing he could do would return him to his ordinary life. Watching this film is like watching a lamb go to the slaughter, resurrect itself and slaughter everyone else.

I have read, re-read and generally mutilated my copy of Rainier Maria Rilke's "Letters To A Young Poet". Rarely does a day go by without me thinking of Rilke's Nietzschean, no-holds-barred philosophy of the real poet. For him, a poet is no simply one who writes verses or rhymes words: it is a different kind of human being who embraces not only beauty and happinesss but suffering and misfortune. His thoughts on solitude are absolutely indispensable. Any artist or aspiring artist who has ever been in a fruitless relationship ("loss of the self" is a theme he explores almost obsessively) will realize that Rilke is writing through experience on the necessity of a good amount of solitude, both spiritual and physical, to create art. He is achingly honest to the poet with whom he is conversing, and passionately sincere. He knows that not every poet is a poet, and that some will find the Promethean task far too exhausting to actually go through with it: the real artist is the one who has no choice in the matter. His inner demons or angels will not ALLOW him to stop writing. Bukowski's thoughts on the matter are similar, as are most major writers and artist. This is a demanding, unforgiving collection of letters. Rilke has no patience for weakness or dilly dallying. But it is more inspiring than any self-help book on the shelf. This should be nationally distributed, not only for artists but for human beings as a whole.

It's been a long time since I've seen a movie quite this terrible. After about ten minutes I realized I was watching an unintentional comedy directed by some jackass zealot. Notice that during the previews all the movies are religious. "Crosswalk Entertainment".

It begins with a man (Michael Ironside, prostituting himself for cash) shooting a monk SITTING BEHIND A F**KING LAPTOP with a silencer and then being apprehended by to men who give him his hat and let him go. These guys are angels. Praise the Lord.

It spirals into the worst cinematic attempt at a Biblical message I have ever seen. The funniest parts involve the Antichrist, this idiotic English guy who can't act and takes over the world in, ah, about a week. But wait! Jesus comes to save the day! That is, once the 90210 looking protagonist breaks down his satanic doubt and PRAYS! This is bust a gut comedy.

Turn on Lifetime TV instead. The quality is about the same.

While I cannot say that this book is for everybody, fans of Italian literature and those interested in colossally contradictory attitudes will be thrilled. Jacopo Ortis, a young romantic (Romantic with a capital R, as you'll see) manages to wallow whole heartedly in every imaginable feeling of alienation, exile, painful love, pessimism regarding man and nature, suicide, weakness that he can muster-- and muster them he does in his venomous letters to his friend. From the beginning, we realize that this guy isn't going to be around long. A love affair (not unrequited, surprisingly enough) with a woman named Teresa drives him to the extremities of self hatred, self recrimination, and self destruction. He alternately claims that all society is constructed on illusion, and yet goes on page-length rants about the singular beauty of Italy and its unjust occupation by whoever. In the tradition of Leopardi, he dissects every human belief as comforting illusion, all while feeling that there are sufficient reasons for him to off himself and exalting morality. Jacopo is a confused guy, but manages to cast a strange spell over others--Teresa's father, for instance. He exudes the sanctimonious air of a priest. This is literature, of course.

The end is predictable. It is truly a touching work, but there is a point past which Jacopo's rantings become both depressing and annoying. Now we know why Nietzsche couldn't stand Rosseau. Still, there is a delicious self indulgent, tragic touch to it.

Having read my share of basically insane authors, I would venture to say that Mario Carneiro is the closest thing to an authentically deranged author that I have ever come across, along with Antonin Artaud. At times the pitch of intensity reached in his tales is actually frightening. The stories themselves, yes, lack focus and often degenerate into subjective meanderings, but this only bespeaks of the artist's state of mind. His obsession with "the other" or "the shadow" seems to have been his overwhelming desire to enter the realm of the imaginary, the aesthetic, entirely. His narrators are, like Bernhard's (but more so) seriously messed up people voicing their misanthropy in sometimes unintelligible, sometimes intelligible ways. Most end up killing themselves or someone else. All are extremely anti-social and despise the contented, even revering murderers and drug addicts over 'normal' people. One will be left with a paradoxically tasty distate in one's mouth after reading these stories, and will gain a clear understanding of why this disturbed man ended up dead at 26 years old.