When the "👍" and the "refrain from unnecessary comments" (x1000), I felt that.
1984 this. 1984 that. Nah, gimme a dystopian 1989 Berlin with a plot written on a coke-lined dive bar napkin immediately after reading The Castle. Cast our favorite self-destructive auteur and we're golden.
No one wins in a laughing competition. We're in one called life.
This is the indie gem of duality, and perfect tension is the only law.
Consider the inherent fatalism of the walk-up apartment—that motif of ascending stairs serving to keep us grounded on our futile climb to what? But no matter. That's just life.
Yes, "this is a depression," but this is all we have. The push and pull of order and chaos are seen in every goddamn frame, whether it be: on the dance floor (the fucked-up needle drop versus…
Copying and pasting here from my review of the previous installment of this dogshit franchise: "ethically devoid gore-porn garbage for the kind of people who miss old liveleak."
Of course horror can (and sometimes must) be graphically violent and fucked up if there is a higher purpose, story, idea, or some sort of cathartic release behind it. But what makes Leone trash (well, even more than his terrible writing) is the lack of purpose other than an attempt to provoke…
