Since today is Roberto Rossellini’s birthday, today’s scene is one of the most powerful of all time.
From Rossellini’s 1945 anti-Nazi masterpiece, Rome, Open City, this scene features Anna Magnani as Pina. For the first part of the film, Pina has been a major character. We see much of occupied Rome through her eyes. We watch as she risks her life to help the Resistance and, because we’ve seen so many movies, we assume that the filmmakers will protect her because she’s the main character. In this devastating scene, Rossellini shows us that no one is safe in an occupied city, not even a pregnant woman.
It’s just another day in Rome.
John Milius later paid homage to this scene in Red Dawn.
4 Shots From 4 Films is just what it says it is, 4 shots from 4 of our favorite films. As opposed to the reviews and recaps that we usually post, 4 Shots From 4 Films lets the visuals do the talking!
120 years ago, on this date, the great Italian neorealist director (and husband of Ingrid Bergman and father of Isabella Rossellini), Roberto Rossellini was born in Rome. It’s time for….
4 Shots From 4 Roberto Rossellini Films
Rome, Open City (1945, dir by Roberto Rossellini, DP: Ubaldo Arata)
Europe ’51 (1952, dir by Roberto Rossellini, DP: Aldo Tonti)
Fear (1954, dir by Roberto Rossellini, DP: Carlo Carlini, DP: Heinz Schnackertz)
Journey to Italy, (1954, dir by Roberto Rossellini, DP: Enzo Serafin)
There was a time when Chow Yun-Fat was one of the hardest working actors in show business. He had 11 different films come out in 1987 alone, and his dedication to making movies would eventually lead him to superstardom all around the world by the turn of the century. Alas, even the greats must eventually slow down and by the end of the 2010’s, it felt like he had practically retired. He only starred in one film between 2017 and 2019. That film was 2018’s PROJECT GUTENBERG, and to say I was looking forward to the film would be quite the understatement. The filmmakers knew how to draw me in as the trailer recreated Chow’s famous scene from A BETTER TOMORROW where he lights his cigarette with a counterfeit $100 bill. The movie promised to play up his most iconic on-screen images, and I was down for it!
PROJECT GUTENBERG introduces us to an artist named Lee Man (Aaron Kwok), who’s been arrested in Thailand and taken to Hong Kong. The local police interrogate him for information about a ruthless counterfeiter known as “Painter.” Reluctant to talk at first due to fear, Lee is convinced that he must provide some information, or he could spend the rest of his life in jail. He eventually begins to tell the story of his time with the elusive criminal mastermind, played by Chow Yun-fat, through a series of flashbacks. Director Felix Chong (writer of the INFERNAL AFFAIRS and OVERHEARD trilogies) has crafted a story that seems like the confession of small fish being used to bait a big fish, before eventually turning into something much more sinister and fascinating. I won’t say anything else about the plot as there’s much fun to be had in watching it unravel!
I’m going to state right up front that Chow Yun-Fat is in prime form. Some actors age with grace, and then there’s the 63-year-old Chow of this film, who’s managed to age with almost a mythic gravitas. This film masterfully highlights his incredible charisma, recreates iconic images of his past gunplay, and then turns it all on its head by making Painter into one of the most evil bastards he’s ever played on screen! It’s an incredible use of his legendary career to provide levels of depth that no words on paper ever could.
Even with the iconic images of Chow Yun-Fat, PROJECT GUTENBERG would not work nearly as well if it wasn’t also a captivating crime thriller. Its counterfeit money operations, double-crosses, gun battles and international intrigue pulled me in, and I found myself on the edge of my seat at times as the story unfolded. The last 30 minutes of the film made me question everything I’d seen up to that point, but in a way that did not take away one moment of my enjoyment. It’s not a completely unique ending, as film lovers will certainly notice, but it works.
Aaron Kwok’s character of Lee Man is weak in comparison to Painter, but the actor navigates the tightrope of showing just enough emotional desperation that we understand why he’s doing what he does. When the plot starts taking some crazy twists and turns, I was still right there with him. I’ve always liked Aaron Kwok, and even with his bad haircut in the film, I still thought he did a fine job. I also want to shoutout actress Zhang Jingchu (RUSH HOUR 3, OVERHEARD), who plays the woman that Lee Man loves. Her character drives a lot of Lee’s actions in the film, and I found her very beautiful and compelling. Last, but not least, Liu Kai Chi (KILL ZONE, CALL OF HEROES) gets one of the best supporting roles in the film as a vital member of the counterfeiting team who befriends Lee before making an unforgivable mistake.
PROJECT GUTENBERG was a critical and box office smash when it was released in China in the fall of 2018. It won Best Picture, Director, Screenplay, Cinematography and Editing at the 2019 Hong Kong Film Awards. On a budget of around $40 million dollars, it would bring in over $150 million in China alone, on its way to around $200 million worldwide. It’s a slick crime thriller that serves as a reminder that in the right role, Chow Yun-fat is still one of the great movie stars on the planet. This film understands that, bet the house, and won big.
PROJECT GUTENBERG is currently streaming on the free “Fawesome” streaming service.
The Beast Within (1982), directed by Philippe Mora, is one of those strange, sticky relics of early ’80s horror that feels like it crawled out of a drive-in double feature and just kept mutating long after the credits rolled. It’s not a good film—let’s just get that out of the way early—and it barely qualifies as a coherent one, but it lands squarely in that fascinating gray area where failure and ambition collide. This is the kind of messy, overstuffed genre hybrid that earns its reputation less through quality and more through sheer, stubborn weirdness. It’s got ambition in odd places, tonal swings that don’t quite land, and a sincerity that almost convinces you it knows what it’s doing. Almost.
What makes The Beast Within so compelling is how aggressively it borrows from exploitation cinema without ever fully committing to being exploitative in tone. All the raw ingredients are here: sexual violence, grotesque bodily transformation, cannibalistic undertones, grave robbing, demonic suggestion, and generational curses. It’s like Mora raided the entire playbook of grindhouse staples and tried to stitch them together into something resembling a prestige Southern Gothic drama. The result is a tonal contradiction that becomes the film’s defining trait. You’re watching material that, in another context, would lean hard into sleaze or pulp sensationalism, yet here it’s played with a stiff, almost theatrical seriousness.
The film opens with one of its most infamous sequences—a brutal assault in the woods by something that is distinctly not human. It’s uncomfortable, lurid, and feels like the start of a much nastier film than what ultimately unfolds. Seventeen years later, the child born from that attack begins to change, physically and psychologically unraveling as something monstrous pushes its way to the surface. From there, the narrative spirals into a hazy blend of small-town mystery, family melodrama, and creature feature chaos, with buried secrets clawing their way into the present.
There’s a clear attempt to elevate all of this with Southern Gothic sensibilities. The setting leans heavily into decay and repression—sweltering air, crumbling structures, and a community weighed down by unspoken sins. Characters behave as if they’ve wandered in from a Tennessee Williams play, all strained emotions and suppressed truths, but the film keeps undercutting that mood with bursts of grotesque horror. It’s an awkward balancing act that never quite works. If anything, the material might have been better served by leaning into something closer to a Joe R. Lansdale tone—meaner, pulpier, and more self-aware—rather than reaching for a kind of literary weight it can’t sustain.
Still, what keeps The Beast Within watchable—sometimes even oddly engaging—is how seriously everyone takes it. Ronny Cox and Bibi Besch play the parents with unwavering commitment, treating the story as a straight drama about a family unraveling under impossible circumstances. Their performances don’t wink at the audience or acknowledge the absurdity creeping in around the edges, and that refusal to break tone actually works in the film’s favor. It creates a strange tension where the more ridiculous the plot becomes, the more grounded the performances try to keep it.
Paul Clemens, as the afflicted son Michael, is tasked with carrying the film’s most extreme elements, and he does what he can within the limits of the material. His performance is less about subtlety and more about physical deterioration and panic as his body betrays him, but he sells the desperation well enough to keep things from completely falling apart. When the transformation finally takes center stage, the film dives headfirst into full-on creature horror, complete with practical effects that are equal parts impressive and absurd. They’re messy, tactile, and unmistakably of their era—exactly the kind of thing that feels right at home in a late-night grindhouse slot.
And then there’s L.Q. Jones as Sheriff Poole, who shows up like icing on top of this bizarre, overcooked cake. Jones brings that weathered, lived-in presence he honed across decades of Westerns and genre films, and he slips into this decaying Southern setting effortlessly. There’s a quiet authority to his performance that helps ground the film, even when everything else is threatening to spiral into nonsense. He doesn’t overplay the role or try to elevate it beyond what it is, but his presence adds a layer of credibility that the film desperately needs. It’s like he wandered in from a more confident, self-aware movie and decided to play it straight anyway, and somehow that makes the chaos around him feel just a little more intentional.
Visually, Mora leans into atmosphere when he can, giving the film a hazy, humid texture that reinforces its Southern Gothic aspirations. The town feels insular and vaguely cursed, like it’s been rotting from the inside out long before the events of the film begin. There are moments where the imagery and tone almost align into something genuinely evocative, but they’re fleeting, quickly swallowed up by the film’s inability to maintain a consistent identity.
That lack of cohesion is ultimately what keeps The Beast Within from being anything close to a good film, but it’s also what makes it linger in your mind. It’s constantly shifting—family drama one minute, body horror the next, then veering into supernatural mystery without warning. That unpredictability gives it a kind of scrappy energy, like it’s trying to reinvent itself scene by scene. Most of those attempts don’t quite land, but they’re rarely dull.
What’s surprising is the film’s underlying sincerity. For all its exploitation trappings, this isn’t a cynical or lazy effort. There’s a genuine attempt here to grapple with themes of inherited trauma, guilt, and the inescapability of the past, even if those ideas get buried under layers of monster makeup and narrative clutter. That earnestness creates an odd charm, making it easier to forgive the film’s many missteps.
In the end, The Beast Within sits comfortably in guilty pleasure territory. It’s not something you’d point to as an overlooked gem, and it certainly doesn’t rise to the level of a true grindhouse classic, but it has all the markings of one. It’s messy, uncomfortable, tonally confused, and packed with more ideas than it knows what to do with—but it’s also strangely compelling because of that. Not great, not even good, but just effective enough in flashes to make the whole experience worthwhile. It’s the kind of film that sticks with you less for what it achieves and more for how bizarrely it tries.
Hi, everyone! Tonight, on Mastodon, I will be hosting the #TubiThursday watch party! Join us for Clue (1985)!
You can find the movie on Tubi and you can join us on Mastodon at 9 pm central time! (That’s 10 pm for you folks on the East Coast.) We will be using #TubiThursday hashtag! See you then!
Today, we wish a happy birthday to director Amy Heckerling!
In this scene from the Heckerling-directed 1982 filmFast Times At Ridgemont High, Brad finally gets a moment of triumph. Played by Judge Reinhold, Brad spends most of this movie being humiliated. He kind of deserves it because he can definitely be a bit full of himself, especially when he was working at All-American Burger. But, at the same time, he’s there for his sister when she needs someone and, for a character in a 1982 teen comedy, he’s refreshingly nonjudgmental.
In this scene, poor Brad has been reduced to working at an all-night convenience store. Wherever Brad works, he appears to be destined to have to wait on Jeff Spicoli (Sean Penn.) When James Russo attempts to hold him up, Brad finally snaps and becomes the hero that he’s always wanted to be.
4 Shots From 4 Films is just what it says it is, 4 shots from 4 of our favorite films. As opposed to the reviews and recaps that we usually post, 4 Shots From 4 Films lets the visuals do the talking!
Today would have been the 87th birthday of the great Italian director, Ruggero Deodato! And that, of course, means that it’s time for….
4 Shots From 4 Films
Live Like A Cop, Die Like A Man (1976, dir by Ruggero Deodato, DP: Guglielmo Mancori)
The House On The Edge of the Park (1980, dir by Ruggero Deodato, DP: Sergio D’Offizi)
Raiders of Atlantis (1983, dir by Ruggero Deodato, DP: Robert D’Ettore Piazzoli)
Body Count (1986, dir by Ruggero Deodato, DP: Emilio Loffredo)
When I became obsessed with Chow Yun-Fat in the latter half of the 1990’s, I would constantly search for his movies at the Suncoast Video Store in the Park Plaza Mall whenever we’d go to Little Rock. Unfortunately, I’d run into cheap looking DVDs with titles like “God of Killers,” but I’d buy them anyway. That’s the title under which I first attempted to watch THE STORY OF WOO VIET, starring a young Chow-Yun-Fat and directed by Hong Kong legend Ann Hui. Whoever distributed the film was making a blatant cash grab on Chow Yun-Fat’s worldwide popularity at the time, and the DVD was terrible. I turned it off after a little while because the print was so dark you could barely see it, and the subtitles were illegible, constantly falling off the screen. I had not attempted to watch the film again until very recently. My friends on “Podcast on Fire” devoted an episode to THE STORY OF WOO VIET, which piqued my interest again. Lo and behold, I found a fine print with English subtitles streaming on Tubi!
As the story starts, we meet Woo Viet (Chow Yun-Fat) on a boat full of starving refugees. We learn that he’s a former Vietnamese soldier escaping to Hong Kong in hopes of making his way to the United States. It’s a tough start as we see a baby die of malnourishment and an old man murdered by Vietnamese special agents, which leads to Woo Viet fighting off and killing those same agents, all within the first 15 minutes. On the run for murder, he’s lucky that his Hong Kong pen pal, social worker Lap-Quan (Cora Miao), can help him get fake papers for his escape to the United States. As he’s getting ready to leave, he meets the beautiful Shum Ching (Cherie Chung), who’s also using fake documents to get to the U.S. Unfortunately, the Hong Kong trafficker who’s supposed to be helping them, has sold Shum Ching to a powerful gangster in the Philippines with plans to turn her into a prostitute. When she’s taken away from the Manila airport, Woo Viet goes after her. Unable to kick enough ass to save her, he ends up working as a hired gun for her kidnapper in hopes of buying her freedom. Throw in Shaw Brothers legend Lo Lieh as Sarm, Woo Viet’s partner in crime in Manila, and the stage is set for an escape to a better tomorrow or loneliness and a quick death.
After viewing the film, it’s probably best that I couldn’t watch THE STORY OF WOO VIET back in the late 1990’s. At that time, I wanted Chow Yun-Fat as the honorable gangster of films like A BETTER TOMORROW and THE KILLER, or the badass cop of HARD-BOILED. I could not have appreciated director Ann Hui’s work here, the second film in her “Viet Nam trilogy.” Gritty and downbeat, it’s about as far away from John Woo’s stylish films as you can get. When the violence comes, it lands with a painful thud as nails enter heads, knives slash bodies, and even toothbrushes are shoved through cheeks. This is Ann Hui working within a genre film plotline while infusing it with something akin to bleak realism. She would go on to develop her legendary career with the next year’s BOAT PEOPLE, and she would use Chow a couple of more times in films like LOVE IN A FALLEN CITY and THE POSTMODERN LIFE OF MY AUNT. This is not peak Ann Hui, but she still brings something interesting to this early effort.
As far as the performances go, Chow may have been 5 years away from the superstardom of A BETTER TOMORROW, but he already had what it took to be a film lead. Even in a film like this, without his heroic bloodshed honor, he has a way of making it look easy. Cherie Chung is appealing as Shum Ching, and she was soon on her way to film stardom in Hong Kong hits like PEKING OPERA BLUES, AN AUTUMN’S TALE (with Chow), and John Woo’s ONCE A THIEF (also with Chow). Like many Hong Kong actresses before her, after a string of successful films she would get married and retire in 1991. I like Cora Miao early in the film as the kind social worker, but she fades as the film progresses. Miao would work with Chow and Ann Hui frequently throughout the 80’s. Like Chung, she retired in 1991 and married director Wayne Wang (THE JOY LUCK CLUB). Finally, I wanted to give a shoutout to Lo Lieh as Woo Viet’s one friend, Sarm. While he may be known best for his classic work with Shaw Brothers in films like the FIVE FINGERS OF DEATH and THE 36TH CHAMBER OF SHAOLIN, he gives a solid character performance here and would go on to work in Hong Kong for another two decades.
THE STORY OF WOO VIET is not at the top of the list of films that Hong Kong legends Chow Yun-Fat and Ann Hui would work on, but it’s still an important watch to see their obvious talent at this point in their careers. I’m glad I finally watched the film in 2026. After all the life I’ve lived since those days digging through the DVDs at the Park Plaza Mall, there’s no way it could have hit me the same way then that it does now.
“Hi, I’m Cindy. I’m the perfect female type: 18 to 25. I’m here to sell for you.” — Cindy Fairmont
Looker is one of those 1981 films that, when it first came out, probably felt more like a goofy, slightly overwrought tech‑paranoia thriller than a serious prediction about the future. On paper, the premise—plastic‑surgery‑obsessed models being turned into digital clones for hyper‑tuned TV ads—sounds like a pulpy B‑movie gimmick. But viewed through the lens of right now, with Instagram influencers, AI‑generated content, and algorithm‑driven aesthetics shaping how we think about beauty and success, Looker starts to feel like a strangely accurate, almost eerie forecast. For a movie that was easy to write off as a minor, tonally wobbly Michael Crichton artifact, it does a surprisingly sharp job of outlining the emotional and cultural landscape we’re living in four decades later.
At the center of that landscape is Digital Matrix, the film’s antagonist in the form of a sleek, forward‑looking tech company that positions itself as a clean, rational, and indispensable partner to the advertising world. The company promises to revolutionize marketing by replacing messy, unreliable human models with perfectly calibrated digital avatars optimized to trigger maximum viewer response. That framing—as a neutral, even benevolent innovator—makes it all the more unsettling when its plans take on a distinctly murderous slant. To protect its “LOOKER” system and its vision of a world where perception can be mathematically controlled, Digital Matrix is willing to silence anyone who gets too close to the truth, from test‑subject models to inquisitive doctors. The bodies start piling up just off‑screen, treated as collateral damage in the pursuit of a more efficient, more profitable media ecosystem.
Seen from today’s vantage, Digital Matrix feels like a rough, bluntly drawn prototype of the big tech giants we now live with: polished, data‑driven, media‑centric, and profoundly invested in shaping what we see, buy, and believe. The difference, of course, is that modern tech behemoths are a lot better at hiding the bodies. In the real world, the “harm” is rarely as literal as Looker portrays it; instead, it shows up as algorithm‑driven addictions, mental health erosion, privacy carve‑ups, and the quiet erosion of trust in shared reality. People don’t get zapped by a sinister beam of light in a corporate lab; they get nudged into polarization, over‑consumption, or self‑images so warped that they resemble the film’s surgically obsessed models. The film exaggerates the physical violence, but its broader point—that when a tech company decides it can engineer human behavior at scale, ethical lines start to blur—still rings uncomfortably true.
Crichton’s version of this is less about organic social‑media culture and more about a centralized, corporate‑run system, but the emotional texture is similar. The models in Looker are under pressure to conform to a narrow, algorithmically derived standard of beauty, and the film doesn’t shy away from the toll that takes. They’re not just selling products; they’re being sold as products, their bodies and faces reduced to data points that can be adjusted, duplicated, and replaced. The idea that a person can be scanned, stored, and then endlessly repurposed as a digital avatar also anticipates contemporary debates about deepfakes, AI‑generated influencers, and the fear that real actors, musicians, and creators might be replaced by synthetic versions once their likeness and behavior are sufficiently “trained.” In that sense, Looker reads like an early, slightly clunky draft of the same anxieties we’re only now starting to grapple with at scale.
Where Looker falls short, at least in its day, is in fully articulating what all of this means for the idea of truth. The technology of 1981—not just the film’s budget and effects, but the broader cultural imagination—still assumed that truth was something largely fixed, something you could point to and defend if you had the right facts on your side. The movie flirts with the idea that perception can be manufactured, but it doesn’t really have the tools yet to show how completely that can destabilize the very concept of objective reality. The “LOOKER” system is treated as a kind of brainwashing gadget, a one‑off sci‑fi device rather than the logical endpoint of an entire infrastructure built to measure, model, and manipulate human behavior. The film wants to ask who controls the image, but in the early ’80s that question still felt contained, almost theatrical.
Now, in a world where truth is less about who has the facts in their corner and more about who controls the data, it’s clear how undercooked that idea really was in Looker. Today, truth is less a question of evidence and more a question of access: who has the biggest data centers, who owns the most comprehensive behavioral datasets, who runs the most sophisticated algorithmic matrices for shaping what people see, hear, and believe. Social‑media platforms, search engines, and ad networks don’t just reflect reality; they actively construct it by deciding which voices get amplified, which images get pushed, and which narratives get repeated until they feel like consensus. The company with the most money to build and refine those systems doesn’t just sell products; it sells versions of reality, packaged as personalized feeds, auto‑generated content, and AI‑driven narratives that feel increasingly indistinguishable from the “real” world.
Looker doesn’t fail because the ideas themselves are weak; in fact, the film actually does a fairly solid job of letting those ideas breathe and collide with each other. The problem is that those ideas sounded quite ludicrous within the context of 1981. A company digitally scanning and cloning models to engineer perfect ads, then using a device to subtly manipulate viewers’ minds, felt closer to paranoid pulp fantasy than plausible near‑future speculation. That gap between the film’s ambition and its audience’s willingness to buy into it gives the movie a slightly awkward tone, as if the world around it hasn’t yet caught up to the reality Crichton is trying to describe. The concepts are ahead of their time, which is exactly what makes them feel so prescient now, but back then, that same forward‑thinking quality made them easier to dismiss as silly or overreaching.
That disconnect is compounded by a cast that never quite seems to have fully bought into the film’s themes and narrative, even though several of them are game within the limits of the material. Albert Finney brings his usual grounded, slightly skeptical energy to Dr. Larry Roberts, lending the story a believable human center as the reluctant investigator pulled into Digital Matrix’s orbit. There’s a lived‑in quality to his performance that makes the ethical unease feel real, even when the plot veers into goofy sci‑fi mechanics. James Coburn, meanwhile, chews the scenery with a smarmy, charming conviction that suits Reston perfectly; he plays the corporate tech visionary as someone who genuinely believes in his own rhetoric, which makes his moral bankruptcy feel all the more unsettling. But around them, the rest of the ensemble often feels like it’s treating the premise more as a glossy thriller window dressing than a full‑blown social‑tech critique. The models and executives sometimes land their lines with a kind of detached professionalism that undercuts the deeper anxieties the film is trying to tap into.
As a piece of cultural legacy, Looker works less as a perfectly executed prediction and more as an early, slightly wobbly harbinger of the digital age we’re now fully immersed in. The film’s version of Digital Matrix may look clunky by our standards, but its logic—optimize attention, manufacture desire, and treat people as data to be extracted and reused—has become the default operating system of much of the digital world. The anxiety about who controls the image, who owns the algorithm, and who ultimately shapes what we see as “real” is no longer a speculative sci‑fi concern; it’s baked into the daily experience of social media, deepfake content, and AI‑driven feeds. Looker doesn’t need to be taken as a perfectly accurate prediction; it’s more powerful as a mood piece about the anxieties Crichton saw simmering beneath the surface of media, technology, and consumer culture. And in the way it casts a cutting‑edge tech company as the film’s real antagonist—a corporation whose “progressive” vision of the future quietly slides into murder and control—it feels uncomfortably close to the darker side of today’s Silicon Valley logic, minus the obvious body count but packed with a different kind of damage—one that’s less about visible corpses and more about the quiet erosion of what we can trust to be true.
Looker doesn’t so much fly too high to the sun and then crash‑burn under the weight of its ambition as it does peer through a cracked, slightly distorted future‑looking glass and just keeps staring in the wrong direction until the future finally catches up to it. It’s a film that doesn’t quite hold together as a flawless sci‑fi masterpiece, but it also never fully collapses under its own loftiness the way so many overly serious ’80s tech‑paranoia pictures do. Instead, it lurches forward with a rough, uneven energy that somehow makes its prescience feel more honest than polished. The movie doesn’t provide clean answers or tidy resolutions; it just lays out a set of ideas—about media, authenticity, beauty standards, and corporate control over perception—and then lets them sit in the air long after the credits roll.
Since today is Orson Welles’s birthday, I wanted to share at least one scene that I love from his films. The famous tracking shot from 1958’s TouchofEvil, which begins in America and ends in Mexico, truly shows Orson Welles at his visionary best.
It’s also Welles at his most clever. Knowing that he wouldn’t be given control over the editing of the footage he shot, Welles included as many long shots as possible to make it more difficult for an editor to chop up or alter his vision.
Through the Shattered Lens 