I TOO DREAM IN COLOUR AND IN RHYME
Perhaps the only film that can successfully venture into the undefinable, like the greatest works of art - this is Kiarostami staring directly into the void. Shot-reverse shot as the ultimate axiom, a series of dichomities between driver and passenger, the reasons to die and the reasons to live, ones relationship to themselves and their relationship to the world, what's been taken from you and what's in front of you, the emotions we cling to to preserve our own sense…
Almost impossible to watch on its own terms having already known Malick's later work, not least because this so ruthlessly critiques the romanticism that he will later on lean into. But even then there's more here than meets the eye just on that level: while it lacks the grandiose poetic sensibility of his later work this is probably the closest Malick ever got to real psychological depth - Martin Sheen's Kit, despicable as he may be, is still perhaps the…
"I got beat up. I'm the victim here."
"Cross the room if you've ever been blamed for something you didn't do."
Many months before the films North American release, I joked that Good Time looked like "a modern-day Phil Karlson picture" so I was doubly pleasantly surprised when I found that this film approximated that feeling. In his annual love-letter to Cannes, Mark Peranson called the film "a kind of Dionysian New York Gesamtkunstwerk....immersion without identification." Where Good Time…