For me, one of the greatest perennial cinematic tragedies is a film that almost achieves true greatness, but somehow falls short in one way or another. Indeed, whether it be the extremely poor choice of sexual encounters in a Radley Metzger f**k flick (e.g. the boner-breaking pegging climax in The Opening of Misty Beethoven (1976)) or the phony emasculating feminism injected into Dutch auteur Martin Koolhoven’s apocalyptic western Brimstone (2016), cinema history is littered with begrudgingly admirable art that is oftentimes simultaneously intriguing and infuriating, which is certainly the way I would describe much of the oeuvre of mick-blooded English auteur Mike Figgis (Internal Affairs, Cold Creek Manor). While I have in some way or another enjoyed most of films that...
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Apr 2nd 2018