2015 BEST NEW ARTISTS:

A lot of new bands but not many making a blimp on my radar. Here are the one that did:




THE YEAR'S BEST NEW ARTIST IS:



Meghan Remy: yea yea, she's not new but this is her new big label debut and, woosah, its smoking! We want U.S.Girls around always.




THE REST (in no particular order):



Young Thug:freaky talent.



James Petralli: his solo output (as Bop English) is so much better than when he's in his band.



Shamir:gender-smashing house/hop.



Will Butler: away from the proclaim of Arcade Fire but still shining with a promising solo LP.



Tobias Jesso Jr.:the new white soul class has arrived.



Tink: no shortage of female rappers but look out for this one.



Day Wave: real emotion.



Young Guv:little by little he's getting there.



Alessia Cara: only 19 but that voice, wow!

Top 15 Worst Films of 2015 (That I Saw):

It's been a dismal year so why waste time examining the carcass? Here are the films that made me cringe the most:






1. Knock Knock: an absurd tale of a married man not being able to resist two young seductresses. If the plot wasn’t hooey enough, Keanu Reeves completely messes up every single line of dialogue that spews from his lips. (DIRECTED BY ELI ROTH)




2. Lake Placid Vs. Anaconda: B-movie obviously but damn, the alligators’ jaws don’t even move when eating human prey… (DIRECTED BY A.B. STONE)






3. The Boy Next Door: Jenny from the block in search of young white jock peen and it costs her far more than she thought it would, including nutty, wooden dialogue... over and over again. (DIRECTED BY ROB COHEN)






4. Seventh Son: the countless delays of this project was warning enough how putrid it is but even the global box office intake confirmed that the public didn’t care for Julianne Moore (who should have known better) as Mother Malkin, a witch who has a ridiculous decades-old battle with a hunter named Gregory, a drunk-sounding Jeff Bridges (working hella hard to land a Razzie). He’s, by far, the worst thing here—in a minefield of pretty horrible action all around. (DIRECTED BY SERGEI BODROV)






5. #Horror: shockingly senseless. (DIRECTED BY TARA SUBKOFF)






6. Zombieworld: gutter-level foolishness. 9DIRECTED BY VARIOUS PERSONS)






7. Mortdecai: the point at which the end of Johnny Depp’s box office appeal began. For once, the parody he performs runs flat and takes everyone out with him. Rated SU for severely unfunny. (DIRECTED BY DAVID KOEPP)






8. The Last Witch Hunter: for Vin Diesel, less should always be more, as in the words he speaks. (DIRECTED BY BRECK EISNER)






9. Ted 2: admittedly not as horrible as its prequel but even so the political incorrectness has long run thin. (DIRECTED BY SETH MACFARLANE)






10. The Ouija Experiment 2: insipid and basic. (DIRECTED BY ISRAEL LUNA)





11. Paul Blart Mall Cop 2: blah blah blah… (DIRECTED BY ANDY FICKMAN)





12. Poltergeist: taking an iconic scary 80s flick and cleansing it of any genuine scares in the name of modernism is just plain dumb. (DIRECTED BY GIL KENAN)





13. Vice: came out early in the year but its cheap-looking narrative hasn’t been forgotten nor Bruce Willis forgiven. (DIRECTED BY BRIAN A. MILLER)





14. Pay The Ghost: no year-end worst films list would be complete without Cage and he doesn’t disappoint in this B tepid pot-boiler. (DIRECTED BY ULI EDEL)





15. Terminator: Genisys: let’s hope Arnold won’t be back. (DIRECTED BY ALAN TAYLOR)

The Top 15 Worst Songs of 2015:

Here we get listomana off this year with the fun list...and these songs are God-awful.

Enjoy, or rather, run away from them:





1. Alana Thompson Moving Up: I wasn’t even sure this obese child was really singing like, for serious music, you know like her reality TV show. Honey Boo Boo is a Big No No.





2. Danielle D.I. Wuk Out Mi Hole: Jamaicans tend to get touchy when its pointed out that sex isn’t all—and here is the monstrous proof. I’m no prude but even I blush, in embarrassment when the line, “a you a wuk out mi bloodclaat hole” spins.





3. Zeke Don A1 Class: more porno reggae jams poorly done. Yawn.





4. Soulja Boy Tell ‘Em Hurricane: generally awful but infinitely so when one realizes, in horror, that the slurps throughout are not studio-made but purposely done by the rapper. This is a new type of wretched never heard before.





5. Chief Keef feat. Andy Milonakis Hot Shit: well, the title says it all except the hot part. This is a tired throwback to when rappers were frighteningly just embrace stardom. Best to be forgotten.





6. Magic! Sunday Funday: I thought Magic! couldn’t possibly sink lower than last year’s “Rude” but here any aspersions of a positive vibe is cast aside right away with a stereotypical reggae beat and white privilege masquerading as lyrics. A sure staple for country club karaoke participants no doubt.





7. I Love Makonnen feat. Migos Whip It: lazy-sounding and, lyrically, nonsensical.





8. Macka Diamond My Prayer: one generally can’t fuck up gospel too much—well, except if one is Macka Diamond apparently.





9. Matt and Kim Hoodie On: what the hell happened to this duo to result in this tepid Sesame Street-esque learning tool?!





10. Pitbull feat. Mohombi & Wisin Baddest Girl In Town: I thought these bi-lingual track ideas were seasonal and extinct.





11. Lunchmoney Lewis Bills: though the horns and hi-claps are groovy, the corny lyrics torpedo this paean to providing.





12. Chris Brown feat. Tyga Ayo: even if we could excuse the lame lyrics by Brown, Tyga makes the song worse with, well, even lamer lyrics.





13. Silento Watch Me (Whip / Nae Nae): if Erykah Badu can tell Iggy Azealia that what she does is “definitely not hip/hop” then I think I can tell Silento, unequivocally, that what he does is definitely not music at all. This dude has over 400 million Youtube views for merely reciting lines (describing dance moves) repeatedly.





14. Kid Rock First Kiss: first, who even knew Kid Rock was still recording music? Now, the actual song sounds stuck in that previous decade where he and his inspiration belong.





15. Meghan Trainor Your Lips Are Movin’: pop music’s current white one-trick female pony finally created a big enough mess to earn her spot on the list. So, what did her in: the God-awful chorus. Welcome home, Meghan.

Black Mass (2015)

Monomania



First, the obvious: yes, this film will remind you of Martin Scorsese’s Oscar winner, 'The Departed'. As it should because both are inspired by the same source material; the 2001 book 'Black Mass: The True Story of an Unholy Alliance Between the FBI and the Irish Mob' by Dick Lehr and Gerard O'Neill.

And if you still had any doubt, director Scott Cooper ('Crazy Heart', 'Out Of The Furnace') fills every scene with reminiscent shots, so we get the obligatory Irish bag pipes and heavy Brooklyn accents on heavy-set men who all look a little too familiar with murder. The difference between the two films is as fascinating as what both omitted. Whereas 'The Departed' was merely influenced by James “Whitey” Bulger’s notorious rise, 'Black Mass' totally sacrifices everything human about him to elevate monstrously into a criminal caricature.

In such caricature, Johnny Depp shines as Bulger, totally convincing with slicked-back balding hair, bad teeth and piercing bluish contact lenses. Given that his career is in the doldrums, it’s great to see the slide halted (hello Nicholas Cage!) with this role that is sure to delight his many fans. He devours every scene with his presence and hint of uncontrollable rage. This rage we see early one, making 'Black Mass' successful as we see his slipping from a semblance of a family man into a web of destruction. The more hideous he becomes, the more Depp throws everything into it--at times the tension in his body evidently under the mental strain it must take for such hardened men to operate.

The downward spiral of Bulger however is where 'Black Mass' falters. This is, chiefly, because Depp is the only one given an unrestricted leash and every leash eventually needs to be reeled back in. The rest of the actors, including Benedict Cumberbatch, who plays William his powerful brother, wastes away in offices, seated by the film’s writers, literally stuck, just as how whole 'Game Of Thrones' characters had to sit out this season because George R.R. Martin hasn't figured out just what to do with them yet. The writers, Mark Mallouk and Jez Butterworth, decide to throw whole parts of Bulger's life out, thus making the other actors feel tacked-on: Peter Saarsgard has a memorable introduction then goes out inexplicably without much of a fight. Ditto for the FBI agent, John Connolly (Joel Edgerton), the man who helped protect Bulger’s cover as an informant. The context of behaviour is missing in 'Black Mass', making it engrossing but one-dimentional when one really stops to consider what would make these men act oe react they way they did.

Maybe because the book on Bulger is still fairly fresh the writers wanted to focus on him primarily but biopics don’t have to be based on ancient material to incorporate a great script—look how great United 93 turned out and that was released just five years after 9/11.
It’s interesting that Bulger’s long-time girlfriend Catherine Greig is absent from the film, as if to indicate his notoriety was so beyond any outsider influence by that period on his life. As if he was already beyond vulnerability. That’s what this film needed a little more of when Depp was not on screen to help unravel all the mysteries surrounding his life, which he keep so well hidden under those sad eyes and hollow cheeks.

As for the other obvious question that will linger long after the credits roll: will Johnny Depp land an Oscar nomination for his performance, the jury is still out on that for several reasons. Yes, he carries the film, dominating every frame but when it collapses into moments of disconnect and weirdness, it drags him down too: trying to reconcile his humanity at the loss of his son or when confronted in a situation beyond his power. Unlike when Jack Nicholson tore Frank Costello into pieces of sublime madness in The Departed, Depp has one shade throughout Black Mass. If Nicholson, clearly the superior actor didn’t snare what seemed like a sure nomination then it is likely Depp will fail as well. Don’t bet your house just yet, is what I’m saying.

RATING: 7/10

Game Of Thrones, Season 5 (HBO)

Sister Blister





If the previous seasons of Game Of Thrones have been heavy on testosterone, then the opening scene of season 5 makes it clear that, finally, the rough interaction of men is making way for subtle war among the women folk.

We see a young Cersei Lannister (Nell Williams), already cocooned with smugness, ordering a witch to predict her future. What she receives is a warning, one that finds adult Cersei (Lena Headey) replaying in her head en route to view her father’s dead body lying in state. As she climbs up the majestic stairway in King’s Landing, she passes Margaery Tyrell (Natalie Dormer) and they exchange the briefest of looks.

And yet, the significance of this brief exchange runs right throughout the rest of the leaked four episodes of the show. Cersei’s influence in the capital is fading after the death of her son (King Joffery) and father (Tywin). With the prophesy in mind, she knows her other son—now the king—Tommen Lannister (Dean-Charles Chapman) will be lost to her once Margaery marries him. Her fears aren’t unfounded because as Margaery becomes queen again she attacks: intimating to Tommen that Cersei should go to Casterly Rock, an ancestral home, effectively out of the picture.

These aren’t the only women the series has lit fire under early on this season: Daenerys Targaryen (Emilia Clarke) finds herself under attack by a fanatical religious group (The Harpies) after she tears down their statues in Meereen. The Stark girls, Sansa (Sophie Turner) and Arya (Maisie Williams) are at crossroads too. Arya’s journey to the House of Black and White sees her discarding her earthly possessions except for Needle, her sword. Sansa has the tricky proposition of being carried around by Littlefinger (Aidan Gillen) to reclaim her home. One aspect that’s always improving about Game Of Thrones is the style of directing when both of these characters are on screen. It’s simply marvelous to behold the long shots of them handling each situation they’re dealt with.

It’s the women who are jostling for power now, fighting themselves yet realizing that while climbing higher and higher, more difficulties come hurling towards them. Cersei may be rid now of her father dominating her but finds her uncle equally stubborn. If the new season has an Achilles heel, then it’s the unwillingness to reveal all that resides in her mind. For example, where is she going with this religious sect, The Sparrows beyond getting back at Margaery? It’s also unsure how Daenerys can react now that two of her three most trusted protectors are on the verge of being eliminated. Will she have to, at last, turn to her dragons?

Not that the men in the show aren’t jostling for power: Jon Snow (Kit Harington) gets a title but also much envy. Littlefinger, ever the crafty planner, continues to maneuver all before him and even Jamie Lannister (Nikolaj Coster-Waldau) is scrambling to reassemble his family name. The main difference is that while the women of Game Of Thrones are now openly in opposition to each other, the men are seeking redemption and that takes them on paths of isolation. As we get to the end of the season though, it’s clear things will erupt and the body count rise. Fans of the show know that the producers are in no hurry to reveal their hands, so bunker down and get ready for the long haul---the deaths are coming.



So much promised death and destruction is to come this season but hardly anything can match the heart-breaking scene in episode two when Drogon returns home in the middle of the night and encounters Daenerys. Her instinct as a mother is to reach out to him but she is stopped when the dragon swoops down slowly and sniffs her then soars away. As she watches him go, no tears form but the implication is clear: mother can’t stop or control the coming winter now.

RATING: 8/10

To Pimp A Butterfly (Kendrick Lamar) (2015)

The New Black




Around every decade or so, a voice rises to define music in all its glorious uncertainty and vulnerability. Remember this point ten years ago when Wolf Parade’s debut album, Apologies To The Queen Mary, positioned its lead singer Spencer Krug as the seminal voice of indie rock? His unconventional, nasal twang unleashed what The Smashing Pumpkin’s Billy Corgan had described the decade earlier as, “the resolute urgency of now”. Krug spun indie rock on its head with a type of raw tenderness both Radiohead and Interpol seemed not to want to express anymore. It also had an underlying male frustration that reached out beyond the socio-political but also the personal, behind his tremulous growl.


Such artistic prescience cannot be sustained forever, hence the Matrix-like cycle every ten years or so: indeed Krug essentially isn’t Krug anymore but merely a piano-based parody of himself and the hero in American music is now, unequivocally, hip/hop. When Kanye West resurfaced in 2010 with the masterpiece My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy, this status quo was reaffirmed. But that was five years ago and as thuggish as his follow-up Yeezus was, it clearly hasn’t been as defining a moment as its predecessor.


Since then, a whole new school of hip/hop artists have sprung up post-MBDTF –names like Schoolboy Q, ASAP Rocky, Childish Gambino, Drake—but it took Kendrick Lamar in 2012 with Good Kid, M.A.A.D City, to stir the first real potential label as a defining artist. The album was a stunning rise-from-the-ghetto document that every rapper must undergo as a type of baptism before serious artistic intent attention is directed their way by critics, studio heads and, ultimately, the buying public. Since its release, Kendrick’s every move has been carefully documented, commented upon and rewarded—even after his Grammy shut-out in 2013, NARAS has towed the line with I winning two awards this year.


To Pimp A Butterfly is the best possible follow-up Kendrick could offer us at this time and if I can just reference movies for a second, this is Berandal succeeding on Redemption for all you Raid films fans. Whereas GKMC created a space to dissect a geographical space, TPAB is the inevitable boundary-smashing document that looks at what it means to be a black male in America now, peeping into bits of heart-breaking beauty and ugliness simultaneously and not giving a damn. In the process, Kendrick is referencing so many struggles while beating us relentlessly with an originality that reduces everything in his path useless: the opening lines of the brilliant Alright echoes Sofia’s (Oprah Winfrey) lament in The Colour Purple (‘alls my life I has to fight, nigga…’) over a jazzy web of resentment and misogyny ( ‘what you want/ a house or a car/ 40 acres and a mule/ a piano, a guitar/ anything, my name is Lucy, I’m your dog…’). Indeed, the entire second verse rapped by Lamar is the closest thing any rapper has ever come to beat poetry on record: it’s that on point with its rage and hideousness.


The album’s main focus though is cultural relations between races and sexes, very similar to the theme of black socialization Erykah Badu touched on with New Amerykah: Part One (4th World War), the only difference being she was waxing lyrical before Obama became president and Kendrick, seven years later, poignantly showing us that even with a black man in the White House, not a lot has changed where he’s from (note the sharp retort ‘what it do?’ line aimed at Obama in Hood Politics). But if Lamar shows disappointment with the status quo, he also turns the fire inwards: to how blacks treat each other: the lack of sympathy on How Much A Dollar Cost runs parallel to him not even recognizing Christ when they meet in the street, only to find spiritual joy mere minutes later on the live version of the self-affirming I. The free-loading mentality gets a toxic shakedown on King Kunta, a track that slyly posits sexual politics with phallic power (‘bitch where you when I was walkin’?/ life ain’t nothing but a fat vagina…’) while The Blacker The Berry is the obvious reference to the upheaval and hurt blacks still feel at police brutality post Trayvon Martin and Ferguson ( ‘sometimes I get off watchin’ you die in vain/ its such a shame/ they may call me crazy/ but homie you made me/ black don’t crack, my nigga…’).


And that’s what makes To Pimp A Butterfly such a great album: amid the maelstrom of superlative production and lyricism, Lamar keeps everything dead honest and vulnerable. And unabashedly black. What else could explain U, a desperate cry for redemption, the type of ideal Kanye tried to grasp for on Yeezus but failed to hold on to. Kendrick opens it up with a growl then repeats a single line, ‘loving you is complicated’ before tearing into a diatribe-laced verse of self-hate before morphing into a Spanish couplet then morphing into being drunk on resentment. It’s a damning verse, one where the role of manhood (father, brother, homie, role model) get castigated for its collective failure to lift the black community.



That manhood conundrum —so brazenly depicted on the iconic album cover-- has Kendrick tapping into so much vitriol at this point of his career that it’s hard to know when the resentment stops and the indifference takes over. Not even the reverence to what came before him holds him back: witness his “interview” with Tupac on Mortal Man and the sampling of greats of soul, past and current, who have all clearly influenced this album. Even modern-day masterpieces by Badu, D’angelo and Outkast come readily to mind when one imagines the playlist he must have been listening to when planning the album. It is a co-dependent relationship acknowledged, one he expertly masters time and time again on To Pimp A Butterfly, never skipping the truism emanating from the state of America’s constantly charged stance to the black male. Yes, to quote his contemporary Lupe Fiasco from a song this year, hate is eventually-accelerating terror but is there any defining voice out there digesting it in bytes for us to truly understand? We now know the answer: Kendrick, that’s who, boo boo.

RATING 9/10

Vulnicura (Bjork) (2015)

Threadbare






By any pop music standard, the news came quickly: Bjork announcing just this very week the intimate details of her eighth album and then, less than twenty-four hours later, there it was on I-Tunes and on various download channels.


It’s a lot to take in: this is Bjork we’re talking about after-all and we’re used to the slow, steady build-up of her music. We usually get advanced background information too—who can forget the groundswell of curiosity that greeted her last album Biophillia, which was hailed as the first app-album in music history. But, that was nearly four years ago and, her ceaseless innovation aside, a lot has changed for the Icelandic icon. She had throat surgery in 2012 and got divorced from Matthew Barney a year later.


Vulnicura, a made up title, is her processing the turmoil of the break up while adjusting to the changes of her voice. Hence, the lyrics are especially poignant and sung quietly, without her trademark growls even though a few tracks threaten to unleash them without prior notice.
A lot has been made about the production value of Arca and The Haxan Cloak on the album but any Bjork album really only focuses on one thing: that sultry voice. A few tentative moments aside, when she lets it caress songs like Lion Song and Family, the familiar blissful awe of Bjork’s stature as the greatest female pop musician since the mid-1990s is strongly reinforced.


One senses that her career, in the quiet, off-air discussions of her fans, is being put into a before and after Matthew phase and Vulnicura could mark the decisive push to her return to underground dance music. She’ll never abandon brooding guitars (notice the glorious arrangement that drives Mouth Mantra) but parsing the tea leaves of her failed marriage clearly won’t last forever. How she juxtaposes her emotional output to various production experiments has always been Bjork’s unique gift. No other female artist, not even M.I.A has manages this tricky task as long or as innovatively. Even in its most subtle moments, Vulnicura manages admirable flourishes: you can’t listen to Quicksand and not chime in with “pop, pop” when the chorus begins. Or not sing along with her and Anthony Hegarty on the opener Atoms Dance when he steps in and she goes with the flow. In these heavenly moments, Bjork finds rarefied air and knows how to manipulate them for full effect.


Which leaves the question: what, at this point—twenty years into her meteoric rise—is Bjork exactly? Pop goddesses who redefines agelessness? Club godmother waving an unique wand? Visionary icon unwilling to rest on her laurels while showing up the competition? Does she still seek love or is she up late at night worrying as she approaches her fiftieth year?


We may never get all the answers—surely they’re not to be found on Vulnicura—but it’s nice to know that even with her technological interests, Bjork can still connect to her heart, just like she did at the start of her Matthew phase when she released Vespertine fourteen years ago. As she croons, ‘maybe/ he will come out of this/ loving me…’ on the heart-breaking Lion Song, it’s clear Bjork is looking back to find inspiration to soldier on to an uncompromising future. Like Janus, she is two-faced looking on…hopeful yet never stopping to harbour regret.

RATING: 8/10

Top 10 Best Films of 2014:

It’s been a great year for movies, especially independent ones. The recent Oscar nominations controversy is threatening to spoil this fact but here below is a reminder of the great films from the year:



Top 10 Best Films of 2014:




1. Boyhood: Boyhood is a rite of passage, an American inheritance reel that has never been attempted in such detail before by an American director. Other directors like Spielberg have centered on youthful fantasies and documenting special circumstances but here Linklater is on a yeoman journey and there’s no special tone being set---this is a long-haul essay into what shapes and turns a boy into a man.
http://www.primewire.ag/external.php?title=Boyhood&url=aHR0cDovL3ZvZGxvY2tlci5jb20veWRzZ2tjYnJwZ2Rk&domain=dm9kbG9ja2VyLmNvbQ==&loggedin=0






2.Whiplash: Terrence Fletcher (an absorbing JK Simmons) is the boss from hell but gaining his approval matters in Whiplash and that’s what drives Andrew (Miles Teller) literally to the ground. Director Damien Chazelle could have overcooked this cast but he wisely pares Fletcher as a human instead of caricature. Simmons delivers the year’s greatest overall performance by sheer physicality: beast aggression encapsulated in temper and black suits. He drives his students to the point of bleeding with his tirades…and we, the looker, simply cannot look away.
http://www.primewire.ag/external.php?title=Whiplash&url=aHR0cDovL3ZvZGxvY2tlci5jb20vaG5sYzYzbDllM3do&domain=dm9kbG9ja2VyLmNvbQ==&loggedin=0






3. Selma: Ava DuVernay’s brilliant film moves ceremoniously at first but once she gets dug in exposing how political and personal machinations work, the magic occurs. Led by an inspiring performance by David Oyelowo (as MLK), the film shows the painful clashes that essentially led to blacks getting the right to vote and not just in theory. DuVernay experiments with the historical figure too and events, using creative license to spill roughness on the present at the time and silently-glowering words whenever Carmen Ejogo appears on screen.
http://www.primewire.ag/external.php?title=Selma&url=aHR0cDovL3NoYXJlcmVwby5jb20vZi80M2FyUkI=&domain=c2hhcmVyZXBvLmNvbQ==&loggedin=0








4. Force Majeure: though it missed out on an Oscar nomination, no one who has seen this Ruben Ostlund film can deny its power. Vividly directed, the film’s key moment happens so naturally that you’re bound to miss what’s really going on with the first viewing. What immediately becomes clear though is that Force Majeure isn’t a natural accident survival story but a devasting expose on marriage and the role men play in it.
http://www.primewire.ag/external.php?title=Force+Majeure&url=aHR0cDovL3ZvZGxvY2tlci5jb20vcnhxOXV5ZDF2Y2w2&domain=dm9kbG9ja2VyLmNvbQ==&loggedin=0






5. Birdman: though Michael Keaton has grabbed all the headlines for his fine performance, in the grand scheme of things, he is the least remarkable tool in this stunning kit. Director Alejandro Gonzales Inarritu is relentless with his unencumbered movement and it lights fire under Emma Stone and Edward Norton. Even Naomi Watts electrifies in her own space---all three play foil to Keaton who battles to keep his inner demon (or bird) in check before it capsizes him. http://www.primewire.ag/external.php?title=Birdman&url=aHR0cDovL3NoYXJlc2l4LmNvbS9mLzNZRWpsUTM=&domain=c2hhcmVzaXguY29t&loggedin=0






6. The Grand Budapest Hotel: every hotel has a Gustave (the brilliant Ray Fiennes) running it but in Wes Anderson’s highly whimsical world, we see the man behind the aesthetics. Fiennes presents everything minimized yet magnified with dignity simultaneously.
http://putlocker.is/watch-the-grand-budapest-hotel-online-free-putlocker.html






7. The Raid 2: Berendal: a stunning expose on the different generational takes on violence. One level gives way to another and all the messy shocks and upheavals that change brings. While the older gang leaders can sit quietly around each other and dream of “peace”, this notion of calm is scoffed at by their younger counterparts. It’s the totality of control that they want and they want it now—no matter who gets killed or maimed in the process.
http://www.movie4k.to/The-Raid-2-watch-movie-5462708.html






8. Nightcrawler: Jake Gyllenhaal and Rene Russo can feel slightly put off after missing out on Oscar nominations for career-high execution in this seedy expose on our thirst for violence. He shoots the disturbing stories and she edits them for television. Together both ruthlessly go beyond the border of decency in the name of some zealous need, a-la Network.
http://sharerepo.com/f/K6V99E






9. Like Father, Like Son: it’s every parent’s nightmare: the possibility that you carried home the wrong child from the hospital. This Japanese family situational drama though doesn’t seek to have anyone arrive at solutions easily, no, in fact—through director Hirokazu Koreeda’s sad silences—it paces through many potential outcomes until the emotional turmoil is simply too much to bear.
http://filenuke.com/f/0VzQN80






10. The Trip To Italy: the boys are back and this time their culinary exploits take them to Italy where they end up discussing, among other things, the merit of Alanis Morissette’s music to Mo Farrah’s “sexy” legs. Yes, it’s a sequel so essentially the novelty isn’t as stirring but it’s just as funny and a thorough;y great male bonding show that neither bloke would admit to.
http://www.primewire.ag/external.php?title=The+Trip+to+Italy&url=aHR0cDovL3ZvZGxvY2tlci5jb20vajI5MTJwMHRnM3Uy&domain=dm9kbG9ja2VyLmNvbQ==&loggedin=0