Category: The Unsung

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.

Always leave the room on a high note. George Costanza knew it, the best and brightest live it, and Joe – just Joe, thank you very much – sure as hell had it coursing through his veins.

In a film filled to the brim with unhappiness, addiction, chronic dissatisfaction, and fits of despair, she is the lone vision of loveliness. Where there is pain, she is the cure.

The beauty of Rosemary’s Baby is that, while it acknowledges Satanists are living among us trying to overthrow the established order, we really have nothing to fear.

You heard me. I said, Mister Robinson. You can take your middle-aged desperado, the missus of the pair, and stick her back in storage. Benjamin, monstrous louse that he is, can go back to lounging poolside.