In which we discuss these two ’60s westerns oft-cited as the original acid westerns, and wonder whether “acid western” is indeed a genre.
In which we discover that Burton’s not-so-fondly remembered Batman is better than we thought.
A lackadaisical western in which Marlon Brando is loopier than a flock of curlicues.
In which a pair of crazy writers write themselves into early graves.
They’re everywhere. Waiting. Watching. Rustling in the breeze. Flowering, some of them, the dirty bastards. Plants. Shrubs, trees, perennials, grass. Everywhere you look. Biding their sweet time. Shrug off the […]
If you’re going to watch a movie—and why wouldn’t you, movies are awesome, you love them, you’re here to read about them—I would suggest not, under any circumstances, watching The Fortune.
Who would you be if you could be someone else?