The perfect thriller. The greatest set ever built.

Beautiful people shvitzing in the Greenwich heat.

Project it on the inside of my coffin.

Letterboxd's logging system doesn't really work here, since my wife and I have looped this while we've slept for the past fifteen years.

The most formative gargantuan monolithic movie of my life.

♫ This is the Captain, brace that ass for impact
Don't doubt, motherfucker, ain't in the abstract
Bird strikin' tiddies, with bitches that is stacked
Black box, listen close, make your balls retract ♫

♫ Ain't no crash, perfect forced water landing
Back the fuck off, 'fore I piss where you standing
I'm fucking filthy, just got the right branding
Ride on my mustache, that pussy commanding ♫

♫ Can't sully this Sully, King of the Controls
Going ballistic, laying pipe 'round the poles
She start chanting, while I'm filling her holes:
He did it, one-hundred and fifty-five souls ♫

A perpetual stew of decades-boiled horror tropes, all the classics of human disassembly bobbing in the oily emulsion of American monoculture, but done with the earnest enthusiasm only achievable through massive quantities of ham and cheese.

Maybe I'm just hungry.

If you've ever met an actual puppeteer, it's obvious Jabba could be puppeted by a single operator but they wanted the production to pay for their enormous rubber playpen for post-shoot group gropes, so they claimed it needed three palm-flappers.

My father is in the early stages of Alzheimer's and I can't wait until he unhinges his jaw and tries to eat my head.

These motherfuckers literally had a meeting where they decided that it was more fiscally expedient to release a movie that edited around the death of a man and two children instead of dropping a single segment of an anthology film.

There isn't a work of art in the history of humanity that is worth more than a human life, let alone a cynical corporate product.

Fuck this and fuck them.