Onibaba: Demon Woman feels like a 1970s grindhouse movie — except it came out of Japan in 1964. Though “pink films” and exploitation movies had already been made since 1959, Onibaba isn’t a sex picture. It’s a folk-horror art film, and it features some of the best black-and-white cinematography of all time. It looks like Seven Samurai in its craftsmanship. That much effort was put into it.
The plot is slight and semi-ludicrous. Two women, a mother and daughter-in-law, have no way to fend for themselves while the son is off fighting a war. They kill wandering samurai and sell their belongings. I expected them to lure men and poison them, or attack them in their sleep — something two normal women could plausibly do. Nope. When a samurai happens to wander near, they stab him with a spear or bludgeon him with a rock. Killing a fully armored samurai with a single spear thrust seems as far-fetched as saying: Hungry? Just bend this crowbar with your bare hands!
The story centers on Hachi, a soldier who returns home without the son. He claims the son was killed, but the mother suspects Hachi may have murdered him. Hachi quickly discovers the women’s killing scheme and demands a share of the spoils. “Mind your own business,” the mother tells him.
Tension builds as Hachi becomes attracted to the daughter-in-law, now a widow, much to the mother’s horror. She fears losing her killing partner — and maybe something more. She tries to drive a wedge between them, but her interference only fuels their desire.
Tarantino has never explicitly cited Onibaba, but it’s hard to believe he hasn’t seen it. He loves both Japanese art films and pink films from this era, and the ending here feels very Death Proof-esque. The movie wrings everything it can from its setting: a well-scouted marsh, a fearsome demon mask, and immaculate framing. It is unforgettable visually — any frame could be hung in a gallery. It looks exquisite.
The movie has atmosphere, but not necessarily much content. About 30% of the dialogue is filler, with characters repeating key lines three or four times. Still, it is never boring, which is a rare thing for me to say about a 1960s film. Onibaba is rich with emotion, captured against the wild beauty of nature. It’s a rare hybrid: an exploitation film with real artistry, and an art film that embraces sex and nudity with surprising frankness for its time.
If you’re a fan of cult cinema, Japanese film, old horror, or any combination thereof, Onibaba is a relic worth unearthing.
Let’s get the elephant in the room out of the way: it is absolutely ridiculous that Kevin Costner walks around in a Navy uniform the entire movie. Yes, he’s a high-ranking officer, and Gene Hackman’s Secretary of Defense would likely want a military figure nearby to lend credibility to his authority. But for Costner to walk around in uniform all the time feels like a producer’s decision, not the director’s. (“Just have him in uniform every scene — otherwise how will people understand the trailer?”)
The direction is a little shaky. During the love scene, the characters listen to a song on the radio where the lyrics literally say, “No way out. None whatsoever.” It’s not just a musical cue for the audience — it’s actually playing inside the scene. So, which is it? Is the movie called No Way Out because there’s no way out, or because there’s a song called “No Way Out”? If it’s both… wow. Super cheesy.
The ‘80s really didn’t understand technology, at least not in movies. In Blow Out, it was somehow plausible for John Travolta to turn magazine photos into a moving film. Here, the characters scan a Polaroid negative into a computer to “enhance the pixels.” Of course, Polaroids don’t have pixels — they have pigments — and even today, you can’t magically clarify a bad analog photo with a few keystrokes. And if you somehow could, it wouldn’t take days to do it.
The plot’s logic is generally flawed — because it has to be. Not just the technology, but the basic chain of clues. She only takes one Polaroid? She only leaves behind one negative? If the image enhancement process is so painstaking, they’re awfully lucky there’s just one photo to worry about.
Good things:
I really loved the music. The synth score was probably seen as cheesy at the time, but it has aged surprisingly well. It’s smooth when it needs to be, exciting when the action picks up — the kind of distinctively polished sound that could only have existed a few years after Vangelis’s work on Chariots of Fire. I’m glad movies don’t sound like this anymore, but the ones that do each have a unique charm that adds something you can’t fake.
The actors make the most of what they’re given. The characterizations are astute: both Costner and Sean Young’s characters recognize the practical realities of their situation. Susan (Young) accepts her arrangement, and David (Costner) resigns himself to it. It’s practical and matter-of-fact, up to a point — and relationships portrayed this way are rare. The only other film that comes to mind is The Servant (1963).
Costner is serviceable. Sean Young is great — I honestly don’t know why she didn’t become a bigger star. Gene Hackman has a rather thankless part but, as usual, he makes the most of it. He cuts right to the heart of the power and authority his role demands, without any wasted motion.
This moves briskly, hits its marks, and has some interesting plot turns. It’s not a great story: there are plot holes, no truly standout scenes, and it could have used a sharper director. Costner’s suit stays perfectly clean all the way through, even when he gashes his hand — until the very last scene, where a single drop of blood is ceremonially smeared on the jacket. Wouldn’t it have been better storytelling to have the uniform gradually degrade alongside the rising tension?
Still, No Way Out is a smartly written thriller, one of the better political thrillers of its era. It’s worth checking out — if only to watch Gene Hackman quietly nail yet another role.
A minor tragedy and heartfelt romance wrapped in one package, Make Way for Tomorrow is a little bit of Casablanca mixed with Tokyo Story. And yet it predates both.
The setup is a little like a horror story. Barkley (Pa) is an elderly man who hasn’t worked in four years—he’s simply considered too old. He and his wife, Lucy (Ma), secretly mortgaged their house, hoping some sort of work would turn up. They don’t tell their kids until they are about to be homeless next Tuesday.
This scenario may be a little extreme, and yet it is a very familiar fear for most people. Luckily, Ma and Pa’s kids are very understanding—at first. They quickly come up with a plan. One daughter says she has room for them to live with her, but needs six months to warm her husband up to the idea. Temporarily, Ma is to live with one child and Pa is to live with another. The first daughter’s husband, it turns out, is not so keen on the idea.
Did you know people used to teach bridge? Like, to an entire classroom’s worth of students? Bridge used to be that popular. She doesn’t just teach the basics—this is college-level theory and strategy. Bridge mattered. There were national competitions, and even wives didn’t see it as just a social pastime. Most people took it that seriously in the ‘30s. Why have I never heard of this outside of this movie?
So Ma spoils the bridge class. Ma spoils a secret romance for the granddaughter. Ma even spoils movies for strangers on the street. She does this—like many elderly women—accidentally and innocently. She becomes aware of her presence as a household nuisance, but she doesn’t know how to be less of a bother. She finds a letter from the “Home for Aged Women.” Knowing her children likely inquired about sending her away, Ma sulks but then dutifully volunteers, pretending like it is only her idea.
What is happening to Pa in all this? It turns out Pa isn’t just old; he is sickly old. At least, he is living in the harsh winter climates of NYC. One of his kids lives in California. So, Pa is to move thousands of miles away. Ma stays behind, never telling her husband she plans on moving into the Home for Aged Women, worrying that the stress might kill him.
Make Way for Tomorrow is sad—but in a quiet, bittersweet way. It helps sort through the noise of day-to-day life to focus and remind us what really matters. The grandparents truly were in love, and the children *know* they are horrible people. Ma and Pa are very lucky to have their family, though. And they are very lucky to have each other.
Before Pa leaves for California, the two walk through the park reminiscing about their honeymoon and all the good times they had together. I’m reading The Grapes of Wrath, which takes place at almost the exact same time. I was worried for Ma and Pa—that their lives were destined for similarly tragic ends. But they’re not. At least, not entirely. The effect of Make Way for Tomorrow is melancholic but sweetly romantic. Make Way for Tomorrow is the perfect Valentine’s Day card.
“I’m sorry, Nick. Something came up and I forgot to call. I feel like such an a__-hole.” “You’re only saying that because you’ve got Preparation H on your face.”
There are stretches of Living in Oblivion that feel Oscar-worthy. The writing is so sharp, so inspired, you forget how small the production really is.
Despite being a Sundance hit and critically beloved, this movie flew under the radar. It somehow escaped Roger Ebert entirely—rare for a ’90s indie. Maybe it felt too “made for L.A.” and never caught on in middle markets, even in Chicago.
Tonally, it’s about 70% of a Christopher Guest film—For Your Consideration comes to mind—but with more bite. The satire lands because it’s grounded in genuine frustrations of indie filmmaking.
Nick Reeve (Steve Buscemi) is directing a film that seems… off. Most shots have actors delivering lines directly to the camera, side by side. It might be a nod to old Hollywood style, but it reads like clunky direction—probably by design, to reflect the chaos behind the scenes.
That chaos is part of the charm, but also the limitation. The “film within the film” is never compelling enough to fully anchor the story. The structure is scattered, with a handful of scenes that feel like endings, none of which really stick. It’s an odd way to finish a film with such smart momentum early on.
But the cast—what a cast. DiCillo somehow assembled Steve Buscemi, Catherine Keener, Peter Dinklage, and Dermot Mulroney before they broke big. Buscemi and Keener especially seem fully formed here, already doing what they do best.
I’d say there are about seven standout moments that feel like they were lifted straight from an A-list film, and another seven full scenes that showcase genuinely brilliant writing. But while these parts shine on their own, they don’t quite add up to a cohesive whole. The film is less than the sum of its best moments..
This seems like it was made five years before it possibly could have. It is great. As someone that has seen almost every prominent English language movie from the 90s, this seems like a lost relic of the era. A forgotten keepsake that continuously earns its “cult film” label.
This era of animated films contains many clunkers. Okay, that’s a little unfair. It doesn’t just apply to animated films, but to almost any large, big-budget or franchise movie from 2016 to 2019. Scripts from this time often offered nothing new—or if they did, it felt like the result of throwing darts at a wall.
Kubo and the Two Strings is creative, yes, but also absolute nonsense. Nothing here is grounded in reality. Kubo can control origami by playing a magical shamisen—but where did that power come from? The movie isn’t interested in asking, or answering, that question. Compare this to Miyazaki’s Spirited Away, where every surreal moment still feels rooted in something emotionally familiar. In Kubo, things just… happen. Every minute, it feels like another random idea is yanked from a grab bag and dropped into the script with little development or organic integration.
The animation is impressive, considering the budget, but the character models are oddly generic. Everyone seems to have Gru’s face shape from Despicable Me, and the animation feels a little “floaty”—there’s not much weight when characters fly or step. Not a dealbreaker, but noticeable.
More frustrating is how little the film resembles the culture it supposedly draws from. Set in early feudal Japan, Kubo features no Asian voice actors in key roles, and everyone speaks in a flat, stereotypically American tone. Why build a story around such a specific cultural setting, only to strip it of that culture in execution?
In the end, it’s a jumble: generic animation, generic music, a scattershot script that relies on its uniqueness of ideas rather than their development. Worst of all, the movie constantly tells instead of shows. Kubo is sent away with his mother’s magic, then wakes in a snowy field next to a talking monkey—who was once a wooden charm named Monkey. “I said, your mother is gone. Your village is destroyed! Burned to the ground!” Monkey yells. Would’ve been nice to see that scene, right?
Kubo and the Two Strings isn’t a bad movie. In fact, it’s rather engaging, and refreshingly distinct in a sea of interchangeable animated films. It’s just… this could have been so much more in the right hands. I enjoyed it—even though I found something to complain about in every scene.
I added another J entry, this time a request. I decided that both Johnny Guitar and the movie would have enough to write about to do them both.
A beloved critical darling at the time of its release, The Joy Luck Club has largely faded from public memory. I first heard of it in Roger Ebert’s year-end collections, but for some reason, I always assumed it was a relationship drama among recent college grads—something more in the vein of St. Elmo’s Fire. I was way off.
In reality, The Joy Luck Club is one of the first major Hollywood films centered entirely on Asian characters, played by Asian actresses. The title refers to a mahjong club formed by the main character’s mother during wartime in China. “Joy luck” is the idea that, even in the worst of circumstances, one can find fortune through joy and friendship.
The film follows four Chinese-American women and their immigrant mothers, weaving together stories from both generations. I’ll be honest: I had trouble telling some of the characters apart. The actresses have similar looks, voices, and even plot arcs. At times, I thought the same woman had multiple white husbands. A more exacting director—maybe someone like Spielberg—might have pushed harder to visually or tonally differentiate the stories.
That said, this is a compelling “women’s picture,” packed with enough plot turns to stay engaging without dipping into melodrama or cliché. The central thread follows June Woo and her mother, who escaped from war-torn China after abandoning her infant twin daughters by the side of the road. The film asks, “How could a mother do such a thing?”—and then slowly, powerfully, answers it.
The other daughters of the Joy Luck Club all carry histories that echo each other in meaningful ways. Second-generation immigrants often face similar tensions, especially when navigating between tradition and assimilation.
I feel like this film is a perfect introduction to Amy Tan’s novel. I never thought I’d want to read it, but now I might. The characters are strong on screen, but you can sense there’s even more to them on the page—more cultural nuance, more inner life.
A strong, meaningful film with a clear place in cinematic history. It’s just a shame the writing/directing team couldn’t quite replicate the success—Maid in Manhattan is a far cry from this. But this one’s great.
Johnny Guitar is named after a sagely gunslinger (Sterling Hayden) who carries a guitar — sans case — on his back. But the movie is all about the women: Joan Crawford as Vienna, the mysteriously affluent saloon owner who can play the piano, and Mercedes McCambridge as Emma Small, the vengeful zealot who relishes the chance to take the esteemed Vienna down.
I watched a great deal of the Grit channel for a few years. If I had seen this on there, it would’ve been one of my very favorites. It has everything I want from a 1950s Western: beautiful, well-scouted locations, gruff gunslingers, double crosses, vigilantes, and beautifully (if unnecessarily) cinematic imagery that begs to be seen in a theater. Sure, they used explosives to blow the hell out of priceless natural landscapes and burned down a million-dollar mansion attached to a cliffside rock, but the film has constant movement. There’s never a time when something interesting isn’t happening onscreen.
Nicholas Ray seems to be doing too much to prove himself here. It might be a tad over-directed, and in doing so, it feels more like a producer’s movie than a director’s one. “Make sure you can see all the movie onscreen!” I can hear someone say. It’s the kind of film that feels made for the trailer — long before that was much of a thing.
The movie has amassed a devoted cult following, mostly due to the resolve of Joan Crawford, who excelled at roles steeped in determination and melodrama. Vienna is highly respected by almost every man in town, yet she accepts it when the little chain of dominoes gradually descends to crush her. “What am I to expect? This is a man’s world, and I’m in the way,” seems to be her outlook. The men end up turning on her, even if they don’t want to.
Johnny Guitar isn’t great cinema, maybe, but if you like classic Westerns, it checks all the right boxes.
I am watching 27 movies over the next two months that I otherwise would not have watched. All movies from my watchlist I was not planning on watching. I will post a little review for each one.
Starting with # (Day 1)
13 Assassins (Takashi Miike, 2010)
You could call this one of the best Dungeons and Dragons movies ever made. It is in no way based on the tabletop RPG, but it has that feel. Set at the end of an extended era of peace in Japan (likely the Edo period from 1603 to 1868), all samurai are trained for combat but no one has actually ever fought in a battle. A samurai master becomes disillusioned by a tyrannical lord and commits ritual suicide, seemingly feeling there was nothing else he could do to take the lord down. This does the trick. A bunch of samurai/Ronin are brought together to take down this supremely evil antagonist.
This isn’t an overly visceral movie. It’s not about spectacle or violence, though it is violent. It has some special effects that look incredibly cheap for 2010, but that doesn’t bother me. It is “telling a story” about samurai mindset and ethos in a specific time and place. It is extremely well written, every scene is masterful and drips with character. I had to keep my phone as a study guide to understand everything going on, but it didn’t detract from the experience. I look forward to watching the movie again straight through after reading a list of all the characters. To look for little details I might have missed. If I saw this when I was 12 years old, it would have been the best movie ever.
An incredibly ambitious piece of low budget filmmaking.
The idea here is a good one: what if Alzheimer’s disease was something you could catch?
Now, imagine giving that premise to Terence Malick to write and direct and you will have a basic idea of what Little Fish is like.
The story follows Emma (Olivia Cooke) as she grapples with the Alzheimer’s-like disease that is erasing the memory of her husband, Jude (Jack O’Connell). The disease can either affect you all at once or it can affect you gradually. Jude’s loss is very gradual.
The script relies on Emma’s narration, both to explain what is happening in the plot and what is happening to her emotionally. I am reminded of Days of Heaven‘s voice-over narration. It isn’t the greatest idea in a movie to have most of the plot just flatly told to you instead of shown visually, but here it works. I usually hate voice-overs, but when it seems purposeful in many ways, I dig it. Because we hear her narration, we understand everything: what each idea means to her, why it means to her to choose the specific details she is recalling, what her emotions have been like during this process.
Badlands is associated with extreme world-building. PT Anderson held it up as a pinnacle of filmmaking because it “used pictures on the walls.” What he seemed to mean was that they found pictures that looked like Sissy Spacek’s family from childhood and put them on a wall. Just to have in the background for a few seconds. Either they asked Sissy to bring in pictures of herself or someone spent time finding photos that could work. In the days before online photo libraries that could be searched with a few keywords, this was almost unheard of.
There are little touches like that in Little Fish. Giant murals are chosen for quick shots. Mysterious paintings that just display a word on the entire side of a building. Did they scout out the location themselves? Or did they commission the painting? Either way, it would have required over a hundred hours of work for a shot that lasts only a few seconds.
In the world of Little Fish, every little word counts. There is one scene where Emma and Jude stand looking at a collage of pictures of details from their lives with their names taped to them. Dogs, friends, locations.
Literal pictures on walls.
Tattoos are also used to keep memories of importance alive, but again, the plot doesn’t dwell on this. It doesn’t affect the plot in the way such a device was used in, say, Memento.
For a low-budget film, it’s nice to see care put into the little details.
I feel like the team (the writer, the director, the producer, et al.) worked their hardest in a mad fit of effort to come up with ways to maximize the resources they had. At one point, a car crashes into another car in a scene that in no way affects the plot. It is just a way to add punctuation to the emotional changing world.
Little bits of effort make an impact. Noticing these moments that seem superfluous made me wonder, “why would they do this? What meaning does this bring?”
In a different scene, the camera follows the characters through a nice area in the city when, in the background, someone has crudely spray-painted the words “Iris come home” on the wall outside. The shot only lasts six seconds and the camera doesn’t focus on the wall. That moment is so subtle and adds an extra layer of meaning.
Who is Iris? What is her story? Did she paint it herself? Why would the community leave it?
Is the thought of Iris never making it home too heartbreaking to remove the graffiti?
Perhaps the biggest problem this movie had critically: if there is a contagious epidemic going on, why does no one wear masks? It was kind of unfortunate this came out when it did, as it was made in a pre-Covid world and came out post. There actually is one scene where scientists made everyone wear masks. However, there is a moment where a main character takes off the mask out of confusion and no one seems to care. This, to me, spoke volumes. The scientists were making people wear the masks as a technicality, but it seems like everyone has figured out that the disease is not airborne. That is my reading of the world as it is portrayed.
The movie is about memory loss, but in a way that embraces quiet melancholy. The movie recalls, specifically Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, in a way that has the characters protective of their love for each other instead of actively trying to remove such memories. Trying to hold on to memories or trying to remove them. Either way, I appreciate the depth of thought that went into this: both movies are told nonlinearly in a method that cherry-picks the important moments. This relationship feels very lived in.
Overall, this is a quiet movie that explores how Alzheimer’s affects people struggling to keep hold of themselves and the people they love. And it asks the age-old question: is it better to lose a loved one or lose the memories of the person you loved?
Best of all is the final line. Poetic and meaningful, it conveys a real message. When remembering the love of your life, even the most important emotions fade into the background when you remember him.
This is a collection of interviews and stories from dog owners and admirers about the dogs in their communities or the pets that have changed their lives. The mood of the film aligns with its title — this is all very, very sad. Sad stories, sad people, and sad circumstances that brought dogs into their lives.
The music is relentlessly somber, a constant collage of string instruments playing sustained whole notes, reminiscent of Philip Glass composing his version of Adagio for Strings by Samuel Barber. Interestingly, the actual composer is a former child actor, one of the Little Rascals from the 1990s movie — an odd detail.
About 80% of the film is not in English. It’s a beautifully filmed, albeit somewhat amateur, travelogue that captures glimpses of how dogs are perceived in various cultures. Some of the countries featured include Chile, Peru, Uganda, Pakistan, Romania, Vietnam, and Scotland. I had to look this up, as the segments aren’t separated by headings or on-screen text.
The film might have been aiming for the tone of Kedi, the 2016 documentary about Istanbul’s street cats. In that film, we see how cats bring meaning to people’s lives, often serving as community mascots. They’re respected and cared for, but no one person takes sole responsibility for them.
The opening story, set in Santiago, Chile, echoes this concept. It features a dog named Dr. Coffee who lives a dual life. Everyone in the neighborhood knows him and will often ask, “Have you seen Coffee today?” He moves freely, vanishing and reappearing days later. Eventually, one resident learns that the hospital nearby knows him by a different name — he has a room there and stays for days at a time. Coffee isn’t like a typical dog; he doesn’t crave pets and affection. His version of companionship is simply sitting quietly with kind people.
In Uganda, survivors of violent trauma are given dogs as a form of emotional support. One woman names her dog PTSD to reflect the emotional weight she’s working through. The belief is that a dog provides unconditional love, free from hate or judgment. The group dog-training sessions, where dozens of new dog owners learn how to care for their companions, are striking in their simplicity and warmth.
In Pakistan, a self-described tomboy finds a dog on the street with a paralyzed leg, covered in maggots, and left to die. Despite many people telling her to give the dog away once he recovered, she refused. Some people in Pakistan believe that having a dog in the house will prevent God from accepting you into heaven. She rejects that belief, instead seeing the dog’s presence in her life as part of God’s plan. Her story is one of quiet defiance and compassion.
Not all the stories are tragic. In Chile, a therapy dog named Patron brings joy to residents of a retirement home. During an exercise session, Patron is told to “find the yellow ball,” which he does effortlessly. The residents marvel at his ability to distinguish colors. One participant remarks, “If a dog comes up and hugs you, then it is a hugging dog, and you can hug it.” This gentle wisdom encapsulates the joy dogs bring — they accept us for who we are.
However, the film doesn’t shy away from difficult realities. In Vietnam, the dog meat trade is addressed. A restaurant owner recounts how his father introduced him to the practice as a child. While he acknowledges that dog meat consumption has declined, he continues to serve it as long as there is demand. This segment is sobering, forcing viewers to confront how cultural norms shape our perceptions of animals. It made me wonder about the conditions of dog meat farms and, by extension, the treatment of all farm animals. Should I view them all as dogs? It’s a thought that lingered with me.
While the film’s tone leans toward the morose, it remains gentle in its approach. Dog lovers will appreciate the celebration of the bond between humans and animals, as long as they’re prepared for the emotional weight of the stories. Ultimately, We Don’t Deserve Dogs serves as a poignant reminder of the kindness and joy that dogs bring to our lives.
