Category: The Unsung

And so begins Woody Allen’s Interiors, one of cinema’s boldest declarations yet for the embrace of unchecked hedonism in the face of cerebral detachment. Where we are encouraged – required, even – to reevaluate everything

How he got to man the register at Colorado’s Kamp Komfort, we’ll never really know. Is he a seasonal employee, the only one who didn’t call in sick, or has the campground been his baby from the start?

Everett Sloane” hardly sends chills down anyone’s spine, but when the book on 20th century cinematic art is written, he’ll be there, somewhere around the second or third chapter,

Benny was barely human, but there was another Cabbie that was not even remotely human that had some of the most glorious and violent 2 minutes of showtime ever for someone who was just a mundane civil servant. 

If there is a misunderstood and despised figure in American cinema, it is the prostitute. If they aren’t being reduced to a crude stereotype, they are granted little agency at all, and even less dignity

In a world gone rotten – murder, honeysuckle, and anklets that lead to oblivion – there is Mr. Jackson. While everyone else is doing their level best to get out of this life a little more than they put in, Mr. Jackson, by all appearances, is the only one devoted to sheer pleasure.

Frederick is tired. As an artist, he is beholden to a fickle public, yet he has nothing but contempt for those who buy his wares. “I don’t sell my work by the yard,” he sneers

She is a slave to her passions. A hedonist, without any of the joy. She spends her days and nights in assorted assignations, using mindless labor to fund the road to nowhere.

Not only does Soviet Premier Kissof not appear onscreen, we don’t even hear the man’s voice. He’s all theoretical, like the female orgasm or a functioning democracy.