The Housemaid (2025)

While my partner’s father was in town, we planned to go out and see Eternity, which still sufficiently piqued my interest despite Brandon’s (admittedly semi-positive) indifference to it, and it seemed like something that would be palatable for this kind of outing. Unfortunately, either I or someone responsible for updating the local chain theater’s showtimes made an error, so we arrived ninety minutes earlier than the next showtime, and instead opted to wait only half an hour to check out the most recent Sydney Sweeney vehicle, The Housemaid. I admit that the trailer had me intrigued, as it looked like the kind of trashy erotic thriller that we don’t see many of anymore, but I’ve also soured on Sweeney of late, so despite my lifetime adoration of co-lead Amanda Seyfried, I planned to sit this one out. Fate put me in that reclining seat of the Regal this past weekend, and I have to admit, I was entertained. I missed his name in the opening credits, but by the midpoint of this film, I knew that it was a Paul Feig production, so it was no surprise when his name appeared at the film’s conclusion. It’s strange to be able to pick up on that despite having only seen four of his twelve features (including this one), but there’s a certain inexplicable essence that’s unmistakably his; this has the same energy as A Simple Favor and an identical star rating, which is solid if unremarkable. Not that I’m judging him, really. I’m probably the last living person who ever thinks about Other Space, which I rather liked. 

Millie (Sweeney) is a recently paroled former inmate who was wrongfully convicted due to the friend whose assault she ended failing to corroborate her testimony. After serving ten years, she’s living in her car and can hardly believe her luck when her interview with Nina Winchester (Seyfried) to be the Winchester family’s live-in housemaid goes well and she’s hired. Although Nina’s eight-year-old daughter Cecilia is cold to Millie, Nina’s husband Andrew (Brandon Sklenar) begins with puzzled courtesy that predictably escalates to some hot and heavy adultery. Millie only falls into Andrew’s charms, however, because of a constant campaign of gaslighting on Nina’s part. She tersely demands that she pick up Cecilia from ballet the same night that she’s supposed to sleep over at a friend’s in order to embarrass Millie. Nina instructs Millie to purchase Broadway tickets and an overnight stay at a hotel for Nina and Andrew in the city and then berates her for doing so for the date requested, when Nina will be driving Cecilia to camp. Andrew ends up taking Millie on the date night, getting them separate rooms when they’ve had too many cocktails to go back to Long Island, but they ultimately give in to their lusts. When Andrew finally throws Nina out after yet another outburst, Millie quickly moves into Andrew’s bed, but it isn’t long before she starts to wonder if she put too much stock in the local gossip about Nina’s past psychological history and their petty sniping about how Andrew was too good for her. 

Since I didn’t expect I would be seeing this movie, I allowed myself to be spoiled by an early review for it. I’ll happily confirm that what one would probably expect based solely on the trailer for the film isn’t quite the narrative that you’re in for. It’s much like A Simple Favor in that it’s recognizably a narrative born of a mind that’s burdened with the knowledge of far too many Lifetime thrillers. Recurring tropes of that genre abound: the overbearing mother (Elisabeth Perkins plays Andrew’s with icy perfection despite very little actual screentime), the single mom easily entrapped by a wealthy man, the gaslighting employer, the new domestic servant’s room being an isolated place that may as well be a cell, the too-perfect husband, the backbiting PTA friends, the elaborate gambits that play out satisfactorily if not necessarily sensibly. You have until the end of this paragraph to jump ship if you want to go into the film with no foreknowledge. To his credit, Feig understands that the modern audience needs a wider array of eroticism. One of the things that I thought about while watching Dressed to Kill recently was that erotic thrillers of the bygone eras were designed to sexually stimulate only those who get a thrill out of watching a woman undress and shower. Feig is an equal opportunity titillator, as while the camera lovingly showcases Sweeney’s toned abs and voluptuous bosom, it spends just as much time ogling Sklenar’s chiseled abdomen and statuesque physique; we even linger on a shot that invites us to dwell on his sculpted derriere while he brushes his teeth, and let’s not even get into the muscle-hugging tank tops that leave very little of the actor’s areola to the imagination. While Sweeney sleepwalks through her lines, Seyfried is knocking it out of the park with a performance that vacillates between seemingly sincere remorse and seething, feral ferocity. She gives a performance that’s on par with Jennifer Lawrence’s in Die My Love, and it’s perhaps too good for the kind of movie that it is: elevated schlock from someone whose brain was warped by seeing Mother May I Sleep With Danger? one too many times after school. It’s nothing all that novel, but it’s twisty and entertaining enough, and if my packed screening is any indication, it’s effectively reaching its target market (BookTok teens). 

Spoilers ahoy. I can’t sufficiently divorce the film as I saw it from the plot outline I already knew to parse exactly how I would have felt if I had seen the film in a vacuum with no prior knowledge. It certainly felt to me that Nina’s treatment of Millie was within the realm of reality of what it must be like to be a contemporary housemaid for a privileged family, even if the narrative requires that Millie either stick it out or go back to prison in order to justify why she tolerates the escalating tensions. On the other hand, one doesn’t go into a thriller without expecting the other shoe to drop eventually, and I don’t think that anyone in the audience is going to make it to about the forty-five minute mark and think that Millie is going to live happily ever after with Andrew and Cecilia after Nina is banished from the Winchester estate. One might think that Nina might then return for revenge, perhaps with the assistance of her groundskeeper Enzo (Michele Morrone), or that Millie herself has been lying to us in her narration all along and she’s going to play black widow to Andrew now that Nina is out of the way. But to get to that conclusion, one has to ignore (what feels like) heavy-handed foreshadowing of Andrew’s hidden sociopathy. Sklenar pulls out the same charm that made him such a magnetic romantic lead in Drop, and its effectiveness is going to vary depending on whether or not he seems too perfect to be believed from the very beginning. Even knowing that going in, I didn’t have all of the details of how Millie would get the upper hand and how the power dynamics would further shift between the relevant trio. (It’s worth noting that the ending is changed from the source novel as well, meaning that even fans of the book are in for some surprises.) My desire for a twisty thriller was satiated. It’s not one that I would rush to see in a theater, but once it’s available for no-additional-cost streaming on one of the services you already have, you’ll have a better time than if you watch one of David DeCoteau’s twenty-eight (and counting) The Wrong… films. 

-Mark “Boomer” Redmond

Britnee’s Top 15 Films of 2025

1. When Fall Is Coming – The one and only François Ozon blew me away yet again. Moral dilemmas wrapped in a melodrama following two elderly women in the French countryside feels tailor-made for me to devour. The dark secrets and mysteries in these women’s lives set against a cozy autumn backdrop completely won me over.

2. The Ugly Stepsister – A brilliant dark take on Cinderella that focuses on the “villain” who really isn’t a villain but a victim of circumstance. Complex characters and violent body horror born from unrealistic beauty standards and body image pressures come together to create nothing short of a masterpiece. 

3. Misericordia – Very French, very horny, very gay, and very funny. Claude Chabrol would have loved this one. The village priest is delightfully unhinged, and I just can’t get him out of my head. 

4. Marty Supreme – So many unlikeable characters who are endlessly entertaining. I simultaneously wanted Marty to fail and succeed at all of his insane schemes. Totally warped my brain. 

5. KPop Demon Hunters – My most re-watched film of the year. I adored the story, the energy, the vibrant animation, and the soundtrack packed with bangers. Everyone’s talking about it, and the hype is completely deserved.

6. The Plague – A coming-of-age nightmare that instantly proves that Charlie Polinger is a brilliant filmmaker and needs to keep making movies. Possibly the most painfully poignant film about bullying in boyhood that I’ve ever seen. 

7. Frankenstein – Another botched literary adaptation that I vibed with hard. I love a tall, brooding man and when it’s Jacob Elordi as The Creature, roaming along in search of human connection, I’m 100% on board.

8. Boys Go to Jupiter – This feels like getting a foot massage while taking an edible. Killer music, cute animation, and genuinely hilarious characters. This one feels like medicine for depression.

9. Bugonia – A thought-provoking, sometimes silly, very violent achievement for Yorgos Lanthimos. It takes aim at a lot of things I personally despise, which makes it an absolute delight. 

10. Sinners – The movie that made non-movie people go to the movies. There’s usually at least one each year, but Sinners became a full-blown cultural phenomenon. It’s an unbelievably cool vampire movie packed with stellar character-building.

11. If I Had Legs I’d Kick You – This made me feel physically suffocated to the point of sweating. Navigating the complexities of being a sick child’s caregiver with no help from a significant other in a judgemental world just seems like hell, and Rose Byrne’s performance made me feel that pure terror.  

12. Weapons – The way the narrative structure revisits the same moments through multiple perspectives added so much depth to those small moments that usually go by unnoticed. I’m also forever grateful for the birth of the pop culture icon that is Aunt Gladys.

13. Hedda – I absolutely adored Hedda, inaccuracies and all. It may stray from Henrik Ibsen’s original play, but I would happily watch a chaotic, bisexual Tessa Thompson wreak havoc in a decadent mansion anytime.

14. Companion – A romcom sci-fi slasher with a feminist soul that is essentially this generation’s version of The Stepford Wives. I had a ton of fun watching this one.

15. Bring Her Back – I love a horror film that makes me cry and evokes an uncomfortable sense of empathy, because that emotional discomfort only deepens the disturbance. Hereditary has done that for me better than any other film, but Bring Her Back almost takes it to that same level. 

-Britnee Lombas

The Host (2006)

When we discussed our conflicting feelings about Guillermo del Toro’s Frankenstein, Brandon likened it to how Spanish critics have had to explain to English-speaking audiences that Pedro Almodóvar’s work in his native language has always been purposefully arch & overly theatrical. Specifically, the discourse revolved around allegations that English speakers perceive Almodóvar’s Spanish language works through a kind of veil of European exoticism while accurately identifying the more over-the-top and camp sensibilities in his recent films for audiences in the Western Hemisphere, which may also be the case with del Toro’s filmography. I’ve occasionally wondered about this in relation to last year’s Mickey 17, which was an overall disappointment to me as a Bong Joon-Ho fan, and which I dismissed as an example of his tendency to talk down to Western audiences that didn’t work for me this time, as it had in Snowpiercer. Was it possible that I was viewing Bong’s works in his native tongue through some kind of reverential veil and that Memories of Murder and Parasite were also over the top (outside of the moments of levity that were obvious across cultures) and I wasn’t picking up on it because I don’t speak Korean? Luckily, a viewing of Bong’s 2006 film The Host assuaged these doubts; when he’s going over the top, there’s no way to miss it. 

Half a decade after an American pathologist orders his Korean assistant to circumvent safety regulations about the disposal of toxic chemicals by directing him to pour (hundreds of bottles of) formaldehyde into a drain that eventually empties into the Han River, a mutant river beast emerges, killing dozens of people and abducting others. One of the abducted (and presumed deceased) is Park Hyun-seo (Go Ah-sung), the daughter of single father Gang-du (frequent Bong collaborator Song Kang-ho), a lazy manchild with bleached hair. Gang-du assists his father Hee-bong (Byun Hee-bong) in the operation of a riverside snack bar that they occupy as well, but his “assistance” is hampered by his apparent laziness and frequent napping, and his overall flaws are further communicated by his ill-advised choice to give his daughter a beer. The two of them are excited to watch Nam-joo (Bae Doona), Gang-du’s sister and Hyun-seo’s aunt, in the Olympic archery competition, but her primary character traits of being extremely proficient but hesitant and timid are telegraphed by her receipt of “only” the bronze medal as she allowed her time clock to run out. Hee-bong’s third child, Nam-il (Park Hae-il), is the only one to have gone to college, but his academic achievement has not netted him a job offer, and he’s taken refuge in the bottle. 

When the monster first emerges from the river, Gang-du manages to put up a pretty good effort, assisting a nearby American soldier who charges into the fray. He grabs Hyun-seo by the hand to flee and makes it some distance before falling, grabbing her again, and continuing to run, only to look down and see that he’s grabbed the wrong child in the fracas and is forced to watch helplessly as the monster brings her to the other side of the river and disappears. The Park family comes together in the wake of this tragedy, but during a mass memorial for the victims, a disease control team arrives in hazmat suits and advises that American scientists have theorized that some of the wounds left behind on survivors may indicate that the animal is a carrier for an unknown virus, and all present are shuttled off to a hospital for quarantine. Gang-du gets a call from Hyun-seo that indicates she’s still alive, and the Parks have to escape quarantine and work together to try and find the beast’s lair in the sewers before it’s too late. 

This is an unusual turn for Song Kang-ho as this is the first time I found it difficult to like him (at least in Bong’s filmography; he’s had a few effective villainous turns when working with Park Chan-Wook). It’s not his fault that his entire generation of the Park clan seems to be afflicted with narcolepsy, but his frequent sleepiness aside, he still does a lot of things that make him seem like a goofy old stoner in an American film about a guy who’s refused to grow up, even after having a child. That did not endear him to me as a character, especially when he later tries to explain to the authorities that he received a phone call from his presumed dead daughter and can’t hold it together long enough to explain this clearly. Instead he simply insists that “She’s deceased, but she’s not dead,” which doesn’t do him any favors, and not even the presence of his famous Olympian sister is enough to get anyone to listen to him. It’s in all of this that Bong is going very broad with the comedy, if it wasn’t already clear from the awkwardly long sequence in which Gang-du causes such a scene at the memorial that the rest of the Park family get involved in the bawl/brawl and security has to step in. It’s as campy as his movies for a Western audience, which comes through at the end when a forced lobotomy seems to suddenly make him hypercompetent. It’s not subtle, and now I can breathe a sigh of relief and rest assured I’m not simply elevating his Korean language films out of ignorance. 

There are other hallmarks of Bong’s work here, of course. It wouldn’t be a Bong Joon-Ho feature without some political commentary; it’s no surprise that American interference is the initial cause of the problem. On the cover of the DVD for the film is a pull-quote that says The Host “is on par with Jaws!” and while that’s a decent point of comparison, the film is much more like the original Godzilla in that it’s about an amphibious kaiju awakened (or in this case mutated) by American negligence, with tragic consequences for the respective coastal/island Asian nation states. Here, American interventionism continues throughout as a narrative thread, from the appearance of U.S. soldier Donald White at the first emergence of the beast from the river, to the American C.D.C. getting involved in quarantine and containment, eventually taking over the assault on the creature with a chemical weapon called Agent Yellow. That this deployment does virtually no long term damage to the creature (it’s up to Nam-il dousing it in gasoline, Nam-joo setting it ablaze with a burning arrow, and Gang-du stabbing it with a broken traffic post to bring it down) while harming if not killing the dozens of protestors who are opposed to the release of dangerous chemicals is, as always, a fun insight into Bong’s politics. Even when he’s doing a silly one, he’s still unmistakably at the helm. It’s worth noting as well that Gang-du’s aforementioned lobotomy was performed when he understood enough English to overhear a conversation in which an American scientist admits that there’s been no additional evidence of a virus and that they’re all in over their heads. 

In 2006 when the film was released, it was undoubtedly a bold new monster movie, but it lacks the timelessness of some of his other works; or perhaps what I mean to say is that if you already know Bong as an auteur after seeing some of his other films, this one may be a letdown, but if you approach it as a straight monster movie, you’re more likely to be satisfied. 

-Mark “Boomer” Redmond

Lagniappe Podcast: Primate (2026)

For this lagniappe episode of The Swampflix Podcast, Boomer & Brandon discuss the first major theatrical release of the year: Johannes Roberts’s killer-chimp horror pic Primate (2026).

00:00 Welcome
03:06 The Islands of Yann Gonzalez (2006 – 2017)
07:51 The Wild Boys (2017)
12:10 Café Flesh (1982)
17:26 Star Trek – Section 31 (2025)
19:59 Rachel Getting Married (2008)
26:00 The Housemaid (2025)
32:00 Paris, Texas (1984)
36:10 The Host (2006)
42:04 Soul Survivors (2001)
47:46 The Lord of the Rings (2001 – 2003)
53:46 Looper (2012)
57:54 Bean (1997)
1:00:43 Eve’s Bayou (1997)
1:05:48 Peeping Tom (1960)
1:09:38 Sleeping Beauty (1959)
1:14:52 The Age of Innocence (1993)
1:18:46 Breakdown (1997)
1:20:38 Shakedown (1988)
1:24:35 Dressed to Kill (1980)
1:28:55 Priscilla (2023)
1:31:07 Megadoc (2025)
1:34:20 Holes (2003)
1:38:29 THX-1138 (1971)
1:43:41 The Lighthouse (2019)

1:46:00 Primate (2026)

You can stay up to date with our podcast through SoundCloudSpotifyiTunesTuneIn, or by following the links on this page.

– The Lagniappe Podcast Crew

Café Flesh (1982)

The most infamous critical assessment of pornographic filmmaking was penned by a judge, not by a professional film critic. During a 1964 obscenity case, US Supreme Court Justice Potter Stewart was forced to legally define the dividing line where sexually explicit art becomes hardcore pornography, and the best he could come up with was “I know it when I see it.” At the time, he was ruling on what kinds of material would be legally approved for public exhibition in the US, participating in a long tradition of governmental censorship of pornographic art, but it was such a rarely honest, human moment within that tradition that it’s continued to reverberate in the half-century since. That “I know it when I see it” ruling even continues to resonate in how modern film critics write about pornographic cinema, as the Porno Chic moment of the 1970s & 80s has once again become a fascination for film-nerd tastemakers. There’s an attraction among hip genre-film aesthetes to treat vintage hardcore pornography as the next taboo cult-cinema frontier to be conquered, now that every last slasher, giallo, erotic thriller, and noir pic of any interest has already been given the loving 4K Blu-Ray restoration treatment. How far does that renewed critical interest in hardcore porno go, though? If a vintage porno like Bijou or Blonde Ambition is worthy of critical re-appraisal through a modern lens, why aren’t more recent best-seller titles like Visiting My Anal In-Laws 2 or POV Juggfuckers 8 also afforded that same critical consideration? I’ve personally reviewed feature-length porno parodies of films as wide-ranging as Batman, West World, The Exorcist, and Repulsion on this very website, so why haven’t I also made the time for Pulp Friction, American Whore Story, or Back to the Cooter? Part of that decision making is that all movies become more interesting and culturally significant with time, so the better-funded, better plotted pornos made in the Golden Age of Porno Chic are going to be inherently more attractive for critical analysis than the straight-to-VOD porno of today. But where is the dividing line? Is there a definitive temporal or budgetary cutoff that cleanly divides the art from the schlock? The simple answer is no; I just know it when I see it.

Of course, this fussy self-analysis over what forms of hardcore pornography I consider worth covering on this sub-professional film blog doesn’t carry much big-picture significance. I’m no Supreme Court Justice. It was just on my mind after I looked up the 1982 dystopian sci-fi porno Café Flesh on the social media website Letterboxd: this generation’s online hub for cinematic discourse. I had just watched Café Flesh for the first time after purchasing a nice, newly restored scan of it on Blu-ray from the niche genre-cinema label Mondo Macabre. As if it wasn’t already embarrassing enough that I was curious what my fellow Letterboxd users had to say about the artistic merits of a 40-year-old porno, my search also dug up three titles in the Café Flesh series, not just the infamous one from director Stephen Sayadian. Apparently there was a Café Flesh 2 produced in 1997 and a Café Flesh 3 in 2003, long after the Porno Chic wave had crested. While the original film maintains a small, niche place in genre-filmmaking history (and on the boutique Blu-ray market), those two direct-to-video sequels are the kind of long-abandoned porno schlock you’ll only find on copyright-infringing streaming sites with names like SpankBang & TNAFlix. Based on their release dates, screengrabs, and slipcover art, I totally get it. They appear to be purely, crassly commercial products that conform to the respective industry standards of their times, produced entirely with the intent of arousing a few orgasms and, more importantly, selling a few video tapes. Meanwhile, Sayadian’s original Café Flesh is a bizarre cultural oddity: a hardcore porno that routinely, deliberately makes creative decisions that undermine its commercial, erotic potential. A post-apocalyptic sci-fi parable about a near-future dystopia where most nuclear-fallout survivors can’t stomach sexual contact without wanting to vomit, the film is stubbornly silly, depressing, and gross. Maybe that’s the dividing line between pornographic art and porno schlock: the willingness to undermine any possible titillation to be found in visual depictions of penetrative sex with so much extraneous bullshit that the audience can only walk away wondering, “Who was this for? Why was it made?”

Set in “a world destroyed, a mutant universe” left over after our impending nuclear holocaust, Café Flesh imagines a future society in which 99% of surviving humans become insurmountably nauseated when they attempt to have sexual intercourse. So, a fascistic government agency has been created to force the remaining 1% of sexually viable survivors to perform for the majority population’s entertainment, as a kind of addictive surrogate for sexual release. The titular “café” is a nightclub in which large groups of Sex Negatives gather to watch a small celebrity class of Sex Positives get it on in public, performing on a small stage as if they were singing karaoke. Think it of it as the de-evolution porno, a series of novelty sex acts staged through music video choreo in a post-apocalyptic wasteland where everyone’s horny but (almost) nobody fucks. Stephen Sayadian puts his personal stamp on the material as a name-brand reprobate auteur (under the porn-industry pseudonym Rinse Dream). Here, he develops a lot of the sound-stage surrealism imagery he would later push to ecstatic German Expressionist extremes in his career-high achievement Dr. Caligari, to much sillier results. In the opening sex number, a milkman in a humanoid rat mask fucks a bored housewife while her three overgrown man-babies watch from their high-chair perches in the background, dancing in place to the beat. Then, a giant sports-mascot pencil in a business suit fucks an office worker on his desk while his secretary types notes in rhythm, giving new meaning to the phrase “pencil dick.” Even when these cartoonish exhibitions are replaced with more traditional sex acts, Sayadian continues to undermine all potential for sincere arousal in his audience, such as in a lesbian orgy that is scored with maniacal male laughter and the droning bomb sirens of an oncoming air raid. These theatrical novelty acts are broken up by the recursive reaction shots and petty domestic squabbles of the Sex Negative audience watching from the floor, occasionally interrupted by a Steve Martin-impersonating MC who ads an air of state-sanctioned menace to the proceedings. The only genuine moments of eroticism are found in the taboo of crossing the threshold from observer to participant. When someone officially designated as Sex Negative is found out to be a Sex Positive in hiding and pressured into exhibitionism, the movie allows for genuine erotic tension to hang in the air; everything else is grotesque mockery of Reagan’s America and its inevitable toxic fallout.

While Dr. Caligari is Stephen Sayadian’s greater artistic achievement overall, Café Flesh holds its own cultural significance as the definitive 80s movie. It expresses all of the artistic & sexual neuroses of a generation rattled by Porno Chic, MTV, and nuclear bombing drills through a funhouse mirror reflection of the times. I’ve seen lowlier, crasser versions of this exact 80s-specific porno aesthetic in contemporary titles like New Wave Hookers, but I’ve yet to see it achieved with such an active disinterest in the erotic potential of the depicted sex. Even in making that distinction, I’m attempting to draw a line between the commercially minded pornographic filmmaking of Gregory Dark and the for-their-own-sake poetic indulgences of Stephen Sayadian, once again relying on a “I know it when I see it” system of assigning artistic merit to one version of pornography over another. Sometimes you just have to admit that there’s nothing new or novel left to say about film as a medium that wasn’t already better worded decades before you were born; it’s just that we’re more used to those short-hand critical wisdoms coming from a Roger Ebert or a Pauline Kael, not a judge on the Supreme Court.

-Brandon Ledet

The Islands of Yann Gonzalez (2006 – 2017)

I’ve long had an uneasy relationship with French filmmaker Yann Gonzalez’s work. His most recent feature, Knife+Heart, is one of the defining genre films of the 2010s and placed him side by side with my personal favorite filmmaker currently working, Bertrand Mandico, as one of Altered Innocence’s strongest pervert warriors. I just don’t know how to square the divine status of that porno-chic erotic thriller with the fact that I gave his previous feature a 2-star review in the first few months of writing for this website. I was frustrated with Gonzalez’s stage-play orgy You and the Night the first time I watched it in 2015, but I had hoped that the following decade of cherishing & championing what his home label Altered Innocence brings to the modern cinema scene would’ve turned me around on it. Unfortunately, I still found it to be a limp bore on a recent rewatch, a whiplash-inducing reaction after the intensely horny thrills of Knife+Heart. It turns out that the key to understanding how Gonzalez arrived at the intoxicating sensory pleasures of his god-tier Cruising riff cannot be found in the cock-tease stasis of his debut feature. To track his aesthetic development in the years before making Knife+Heart, you have to look to his extensive collection of short films, since that’s the medium he most often works in.

The Islands of Yann Gonzalez is an omnibus collection of “7 short films and other works” (mostly music videos) that Gonzalez made in the years leading up to Knife+Heart, published on Blu-ray by Altered Innocence in 2022. As an artist’s portfolio, it’s a much more coherent collection than the sprawling, anything-goes Bertrand Mandico catalog Apocalypse After, published that same year. The auteurist vision of The Islands of Yann Gonzalez is so consistent that it practically functions as an overlong anthology film, especially since the director has so consistently collaborated with his actor/muse of choice Kate Moran (similar to the way Mandico repeatedly deploys Elina Löwensohn as his own on-screen avatar). It’s in this collection of shorts that you get to know Gonzalez as one of the most exciting, hedonistic filmmakers currently working, not just as the out-of-nowhere director of Knife+Heart (and the less-famous brother of hipster musician M83). The only trick is to resist the urge to Shazam every French synthpop needle drop peppered throughout the collection, since it could quickly become a second-screen viewing experience, distracting from his visual artistry. The dream of electroclash is alive & well in Paris, apparently — at least according to these shorts (and to fellow Altered Innocence release Queens of Drama).

The opening short “You Will Never Be Alone Again” is an indie sleaze dance party filmed long before that aughts-era aesthetic was more widely, nostalgically revived. It imagines a French reboot of Skins that, of course, would be a silent arthouse short shot on black & white 16mm film stock. Sweaty teenagers maniacally dance until dawn in a semi-religious, semi-drug-induced frenzy, pausing for brief moments of melancholy mid-party while Gonzalez lights everything with a single flashlight, like he’s documenting a crime scene. It’s more of a mood than a narrative, echoing the extensive music video work that pads out his filmography. We then get a taste of his narrative filmmaking sensibilities in “I Hate You Little Girls,” his first substantial collaboration with his favorite actor (Moran) and his first film about his favorite pet subject: the erotic tension between sex & death. Moran stars as a synthpop punk singer who spends half of her time singing gothy dance tunes in front of porn projectors and the other half mourning her recently deceased, bad-boy boyfriend. It’s a definitive piece for Gonzalez, as it hones in on the exact tone of tragic horniness that would persist throughout his following major works. It’s also got a few unforgettable images, including Moran passed out in the street with a Polaroid of her dead lover stuffed into her see-through mesh panties and a fellow local musician performing a BDSM stage act while costumed as a “Whip It”-era member of DEVO.

The two shorts leading up to “I Hate You Little Girls” were effectively just screen tests for Moran as a cinematic image. “By the Kiss” wordlessly pictures her making out with various scene partners, as if Gonzalez was obsessively playing with his new favorite doll on camera. “Intermission” is a more illuminating text, in which Moran and fellow Gonzalez regular Pierre Vincent Chapus lean against a brick wall and wonder aloud what they could do “to avoid being bored, to avoid being boring.” It’s here that Gonzalez announces his adherence to the principles later codified by Bertrand Mandico’s “Incoherence Manifesto,” defining cinema as a mechanism that allows the audience “to forget time, to get lost in images.” “I Hate You Little Girls” ends on a supernatural image that breaks from reality to instead traffic in pure dream logic, but that guiding principle to not bore audiences with real-world logic only continues to escalate in subsequent shorts. “Three Celestial Bodies” finds lost souls having a melancholic threeway with a kind of Sex Christ on a music video set, while He bleeds out of a wound just above a tattoo of Marcel Duchamp’s autograph. Gonzalez’s signature short “Islands” is a fully supernatural fantasia composed of increasingly perverted, despondent sex acts, blurring the line between fantasy & reality with grotesque monster movie makeup. Even my initial, disappointed review of You and the Night acknowledged the intoxicating potency of its dream logic imagery, citing “a green screen motorcycle ride, an Alice in Wonderland style ballet, and a trip to a phantom movie theater” as welcome breaks from the listless swingers’ party segments that drag down the energy. And, of course, Knife+Heart had that mystic twink character who was inexplicably part bird, whatever that means.

Of Altered Innocence’s two trademark filmmakers, I’m still overall more convinced of Bertrand Mandico’s genius as a perverted surrealist, an illusionist unafraid to break away from the boring confines of real-world logic to drown his audience in the sensory pleasures of a hedonistic otherworld. Look to any stray frame of The Wild Boys or She is Conann to see a more ecstatic, less restrained version of what Gonzalez is doing in his most extreme moments of fantasy. However, this collection of shorts has totally reshaped my big-picture view of Gonzalez’s work, which is typically more focused on creating a sweaty dance party atmosphere than getting lost in the poetry of the artform. His synthpop sex romps are grimy, decadent searches for pleasure in a world haunted by dead & violent lovers. No good orgiastic dance party is complete without an It Girl at the center of the room, of course, so it’s a godsend he found the effortlessly hip, chic Moran so early in his career to help set the tone. The only thing I still can’t figure out is why the energy was so low in his debut feature, which has all the right reprobates, tunes, and costumes to make for a classic Gonzalez sex party but ends up feeling like the first hour of a middle school dance instead, the hour when everyone in the gymnasium is afraid to look at or touch each other. No matter; he’s delivered heaps of hedonistic ecstasy and classic French melancholy in every project before & since, so it’s easy to forgive the misstep.

-Brandon Ledet

Eve’s Bayou (1997)

“All I know is, there must be a divine point to it all, and it’s just over my head. That when we die, it will all come clear. And then we’ll say, ‘So that was the damn point.’ And sometimes, I think there’s no point at all, and maybe that’s the point. All I know is most people’s lives are a great disappointment to them and no one leaves this earth without feeling terrible pain. And if there is no divine explanation at the end of it all, well … that’s sad.”

Debbi Morgan performs that speech in Eve’s Bayou while staring blank-eyed into the Louisiana nightscape. She then catches herself, realizing that she’s been talking to a small child instead of just pontificating into the night air. That intergenerational relationship is the core of this 1997 supernatural melodrama, in which a 10-year-old mystic-in-training (Full House‘s Jurnee Smollett) learns how to make sense of her psychic visions and magic intuitions under the guidance of her Aunt Mozelle (Morgan). Its plot synopsis sounds like it could belong to a Teen Witch-style coming-of-age comedy for kids, but Eve’s Bayou instead frames a decidedly adult world through a child’s eyes. Its witchcraft isn’t used to present playful wish fulfillment for youngsters, but to dredge up heaps of generational pain from the murky bottom of Louisiana swamps so it can finally rot in the sun. The film opens with an adult Eve Batiste recounting her small, Black community’s history as a slave plantation, then announcing that she’s going to tell the story about the summer she killed her father, in 1962. Naturally, most of the story that follows involves a young Eve observing & reacting to her father’s adult (and adulterous) behavior as the audience anticipates that foretold act of violence, but the heart of the story is more about her characterization as the next-generation mystic learning the ways of the world from her Aunt Mozelle.

Writer-director Kasi Lemmons describes her debut feature as autofictional, characterizing the young Eve as “a little bit me, a little bit Scout from To Kill a Mockingbird.” Although raised in St. Louis, Lemmons has vivid memories of visiting relatives in the Deep South (Alabama, not Louisiana) that she felt compelled to illustrate onscreen here, mixed with fictional stories of a philandering town doctor she created for a proof-of-concept short film titled “Dr. Hugo”. Lemmons’s biggest champion, Samuel L. Jackson, stars as that town doctor and town bicycle: little Eve’s doomed-to-die father. Lynn Whitfield plays the matriarch, frequently and credibly described as “The Most Beautiful Woman in the World,” suffering silently as her husband makes his professional & romantic rounds around town while she raises his three kids at home. Eve’s teenage sister Cicely (Meagan Good) takes after their mother’s practiced poise, but the younger Eve is much more resistant to being tamed and instead learns how to interact with the world from her Hoodoo-practicing aunt. The world is split in two between the sibling sets of both generations: a world of magic vs. a world of rational thought. It doesn’t matter which of those worldviews eventually wins out, though, since the end result is a foregone conclusion by the opening narration. Her father will die, and the painful familial secrets hidden by social niceties will eventually come to light.

The mysticism of Eve’s Bayou is more about subjective perception than about supernatural action. Eve and her aunt cannot change the world through supernatural means, but they can see parts of it that others are blind to. Their psychic visions are illustrated in surrealist black-and-white montage, with standalone images of spiders, clocks, and dirty needles superimposed onto the swamps just outside their homes. Lemmons positions the act of conjuring this imagery through cinema as a form of witchcraft, explaining in dialogue that memory is itself “a selection of images” and that the modern world is “haunted by the past.” In the Southern ghost story tradition of Toni Morrison’s Beloved, she invites the ghosts of the past to enter the story through the technological conduits of cameras, mirrors, and word processors. Every individual character’s memory, no matter how rationally minded, is positioned as a kind of supernatural realm in that context, and she does her best not to exclude any one version of the truth in her ambiguous telling of the circumstances behind the doctor’s death. The only character who doesn’t get their say is a disabled uncle who cannot speak due to his cerebral palsy symptoms, so his own memories and accounts of the truth are confined to his own mind. Like the audience, he can only observe, but he’s got a much more direct vantage point in seeing What Really Happened in the lead-up to the tragedy.

Speaking of memory, you might not remember that Eve had a disabled family member in her home, since a producer asked to have him removed from the original 1990s theatrical release, thinking that he would jeopardize the film’s commercial appeal by making audiences “uncomfortable.” The uncle’s place in the story was then later restored in a “Director’s Cut” released in the 2010s, also restoring the film’s core theme of the magical subjectivity of perception & memory. The initial choice to remove him is indicative of the many ways in which the film’s commercial appeal was misunderstood in its initial 90s release. Besides Samuel L. Jackson backing the film as a producer & star, critic Roger Ebert was likely its most vocal champion in the industry, concluding his 1997 review with the declaration that, “If it is not nominated for Academy Awards, then the academy is not paying attention. For the viewer, it is a reminder that sometimes films can venture into the realms of poetry and dreams.” Eve’s Bayou was not nominated for any Academy Awards. It made enough money to register as an indie-level hit, but it still didn’t lead to much of a professional windfall for Lemmons, who spent the most of her remaining career as a director-for-hire in the impersonal world of studio biopics. It’s easy to guess why this movie didn’t attract major studio backing, why Lemmons didn’t become a blank-check auteur, why Lynn “The Most Beautiful Woman in the World” Whitfield didn’t become a Hollywood superstar, and why Ebert’s Oscars predictions went nowhere: in a word, racism. Still, it continues to shine as a reminder that sometimes films can venture into the realms of poetry and dreams without straying from mainstream filmmaking sensibilities, even when working outside mainstream filmmaking funding.

-Brandon Ledet

Holes (2003)

There’s a sequence in Megadoc that features Shia LaBeouf talking about the great respect that he has for Jon Voight as an actor, despite their extreme disconnect on politics. I didn’t realize it at that time just how far back their connection went, as I had not yet seen the 2003 film adaptation of Louis Sachar’s novel Holes, which featured a then-teenaged LaBeouf in the title role of Stanley Yelnats IV, a wrongfully imprisoned child laborer whose adult enemies include overseer Mr. Sir, played by Voight. My blind spot on this topic came up in conversation at a recent post-New Year’s hangout, and I had to admit that although I had grown up reading Sachar’s work (my Scholastic book fair copy of Wayside School Gets a Little Stranger was so well loved it eventually fell apart), I had never read or seen Holes. Not only did I not realize that the film was chock full of movie stars, but that the text itself was notably complex, textually intertwined, and much more thoughtful than most fare made for children. 

Generations ago in the old country, Stanley Yelnats IV’s great, great-grandfather Elya brought down a curse on his bloodline by failing to deliver on his promised payment to Madame Zeroni (Eartha Kitt) that he carry her up a hill to drink from a spring. At the end of the nineteenth century in fertile Green Lake, Texas, the son of the town’s wealthiest man, Trout Walker, is spurned by kind-hearted schoolteacher Katherine Barlow (Patricia Arquette). When he later discovers that she is in love with Black onion farmer Sam (Dulé Hill), he leads a mob that burns down the school and results in Sam’s death while he is rowing across the lake from his onion farm. Sam’s death seems to curse the town, as it never rains again and the lake dries up. Heartbroken, the former schoolmarm rechristens herself “Kissin’ Kate Barlow” and avenges Sam’s death by becoming an outlaw, eventually robbing a stagecoach occupied by Elya’s son, the first Stanley Yelnats. Stanley survives, but his stories of “taking refuge on God’s thumb” make little sense to his descendants. Kissin’ Kate buries all of her loot somewhere in the salt flats that were once Green Lake and allows herself to die from the bite of a yellow spotted lizard rather than allow Trout Walker to try and torture the location out of her. 

A century later, Stanley Yelnats III (Henry Winkler) is trying to create a perfect recipe for foot odor, and his son is overjoyed when a pair of cleats belonging to a major baseball star seem to fall from the sky, but he’s caught with them and the shoes turn out to have been stolen from a charity auction, with young Stanley taking the offer from the judge to go to Camp Green Lake instead of juvenile detention. Once there, he meets his bunk’s “counselor,” “Doctor” Pendanski (Tim Blake Nelson) as well as the aforementioned Mr. Sir, whose role at the “camp” is unclear other than to be a brute and a bully. He’s also introduced to his fellow inmates and their typical kiddie novel prison nicknames: “Armpit,” “Zig-Zag,” “X-Ray” (Brenden Jefferson), “Magnet,” “Squid,” and most importantly, “Zero” (Khleo Thomas). Each day, the boys are driven a distance from the “camp” to dig a hole, five feet in diameter and just as deep, to “build character,” with the tantalizing promise that if they find anything interesting, they might get the rest of the day off. Despite being the smallest of the inmates by quite a bit, Zero is the fastest digger, and he offers to help Stanley with his hole every day in exchange for teaching Zero to read. When Stanley finds a small metal tube engraved with the initials “K.B.,” he’s bullied into letting X-Ray take the credit, which finally gets Camp Green Lake’s heretofore unseen warden (Sigourney Weaver) out of her house to lead a thorough excavation of everywhere around X-Ray’s hole, indicating that they’re not just digging holes for carceral punishment, but because she’s looking for something out there.

The construction of this little narrative is surprisingly elegant for something made by Disney in the twenty-first century. Most of that intricacy comes as a result of having the novel’s author write the screenplay, which ensured that all of the rich subtext that characterized the Newbery Medal-winning book made it to the screen. All of that plot synopsis above is doled out in beautifully concise increments, with all of the planting of future payoffs feeling completely organic and real. The story of Elya Yelnats is related as if it were no more than a typical family story that playfully scapegoats an ancestor for the clan’s current financial predicaments, and the reveal that Zero’s real name is Hector Zeroni, sharing the last name of the woman whom Elya failed to close the loop with before heading to America, comes late enough in the film that the primarily young audience has probably completely forgotten about her by then. Although the film doesn’t show Trout Walker calling Sam any racist epithets, it doesn’t shy away from demonstrating the dangers to a star-crossed mixed race couple in the 1880s, or the fatal outcome of racist mobbery; the only concession it makes (other than sanitizing its language) is filming Sam’s death at a distance, as Kate stands on the shores of the lake trying to warn him before the peal of a gunshot and Sam’s distant figure collapsing in his rowboat. It’s dark stuff, and the kind of thing it’s hard to imagine a major studio adapting a book with such serious subject matter at such a huge scale in these more mealy-mouthed, faux-progressive times. There’s a mature sincerity about the whole thing that really makes Holes stand out. 

I was quite taken with the way that all of the different narratives were eventually braided together into one larger, grander story. Eventually, after one piece of abuse from Dr. Pendanski too many, Zero hits his oppressor in the face with a shovel and runs off into the barren wasteland around Camp Green Lake, prompting the warden to tell her men to get rid of his files since, as a ward of the state, no one will be looking for him after her disappears. After a few days, Stanley takes off after him into the desert, eventually finding him camping out beneath onion man Sam’s overturned boat, where the younger boy has been managing to survive on jars of Kate’s spiced peaches, still preserved there after all this time. It’s from this vantage that Stanley spots a mountain peak that resembles a thumbs up and, recognizing it as “God’s thumb” from his great-grandfather’s survival story, the two of them make their way toward it. Zero almost doesn’t make it, but Stanley carries him the rest of the way to the top, where they discover one of Sam’s onion patches, still thriving, and regain their strength. Just as importantly, Stanley’s rescue of Zero has at last fulfilled the Yelnats family’s responsibility to the Zeronis, lifting their curse. Stanley teaching Zero to read likewise ensures that the latter is able to read the former’s name (or rather, Stanley I’s name) on the trunk that they unearth and keep it from falling into the warden’s hands. With her dying breath, Kate had told Trout that he and his children could dig for a hundred years and never find her treasure, and with the warden’s arrest upon the arrival of the Yelnats’s new lawyer and a couple of Texas Rangers (as it turns out, having a child prisoner with no record of him—Zero’s files were destroyed to cover up his presumed death—is bad news), Trout and his descendants wasted their lives on a treasure they never got to possess. At last, for the first time since Sam’s death, rain comes to Green Lake. 

This is an impressive film cinematically as well. The fades between the verdant Green Lake of the past and the dusty plain of the present that is featureless other than its thousands of holes are concise and effective visual storytelling. Zero and Stanley’s ascent of God’s Thumb is very convincing, full of very expensive looking helicopter shots, and it looks fantastic. The locations are, overall, gorgeously photographed, so that even the desolate area around the camp/prison looks beautiful. Never having seen the movie before, I always assumed based on the presence of LaBeouf, who was a Disney Channel sitcom performer at the time, that Holes would be on par with their direct-to-cable original movies, functional and utilitarian rather than thoughtfully arranged and aesthetically interesting. It has some weaknesses of that genre, notably in the film’s soundtrack, which is full of inspirationally titled tracks (“Keepin it Real,” “I’m Gonna Be a Wheel Someday,” “Don’t Give Up,” etc.) that sometimes literally describe what we’re seeing on the screen, which feels like an over-explanatory narrative crutch for a film that otherwise trusts in its audience’s ability to pick up on nuance and subtlety. This extends to having the young actors perform a mixed hip-hop/pop track that plays over the film’s credits and is, respectfully, embarrassing. I probably saw the music video for it on television at the time of release, and that colored my perception of what I thought the movie was for a couple of decades, so I chalked up the frequent recommendations of it as little more than my peers’ nostalgia. I’m pleased to discover I was wrong. 

-Mark “Boomer” Redmond

Podcast #255: The Top 12 Films of 2025

Welcome to Episode #255 of The Swampflix Podcast. For this episode, Brandon, James, Britnee, and Hanna discuss their favorite films of 2025.

0:00 Welcome
04:00 Honorable mentions
29:30 KPop Demon Hunters
39:00 Rats!
46:00 Weapons
53:00 Misericordia
1:02:08 The Ugly Stepsister
1:10:00 The Plague
1:22:00 Eephus
1:28:40 Marty Supreme
1:44:55 When Fall Is Coming
1:52:22 No Other Choice
2:04:22 The Phoenician Scheme
2:13:25 One Battle After Another
2:38:08 Box office

Hanna’s Top 20 Films of 2025

  1. No Other Choice
  2. One Battle After Another
  3. Marty Supreme
  4. The Phoenician Scheme
  5. Rats!
  6. Sinners
  7. Boys Go to Jupiter
  8. If I Had Legs I’d Kick You
  9. Eephus
  10. The Ugly Stepsister
  11. Sirāt
  12. Weapons
  13. Bring Her Back
  14. The Long Walk
  15. Cloud
  16. Die My Love
  17. Companion
  18. The Pee Pee Poo Poo Man
  19. The Naked Gun
  20. Hallow Road

James’s Top 20 Films of 2025

  1. One Battle After Another
  2. Marty Supreme
  3. The Plague
  4. No Other Choice
  5. Eephus
  6. Sirāt
  7. Sinners
  8. Rats!
  9. Final Destination: Bloodlines
  10. The Phoenician Scheme
  11. The Ugly Stepsister
  12. KPop Demon Hunters
  13. The Pee Pee Poo Poo Man
  14. Vulcanizadora
  15. Companion
  16. If I Had Legs I’d Kick You
  17. The Surfer
  18. Boys Go to Jupiter
  19. Presence
  20. Hallow Road

You can stay up to date with our podcast through SoundCloudSpotifyiTunesTuneIn, or by following the links on this page.

– The Podcast Crew

THX-1138 (1971)

There’s a section in Megadoc wherein director Mike Figgis interviews Star Wars creator George Lucas about his early career partnership with Francis Ford Coppola, and he discusses Coppola having served as producer on Lucas’s first film, THX-1138. My viewing companion and I realized we had both never seen it, so with the weather in flux and nothing to do in the dwindling days of the holiday season, we checked it out. To our delight, we found that it was actually a fantastic film … mostly. The only readily available version at this time is Lucas’s 2004 director’s cut, and if you saw the director’s name next to the year and panicked, you probably know what I’m about to say. Other than rare VHS and Laserdisc releases that might be floating around at a flea market out there, there’s never been a release of this film that didn’t feature Lucas’s late nineties/early aughts CGI meddling. It’s as intrusive as it is unnecessary, which is particularly frustrating when the restoration of Lucas’s actual seventies footage looks fantastic

THX-1138 (Robert Duvall) is a worker on an android assembly line, putting small, volatile pieces into place via remote control from behind a radiation shield. Of late, he’s started to lose focus, and the consequences are dire, as there have been over 150 deaths at the plant that year alone. His is a dystopian world where the police have been replaced by chrome faced robots that are just as likely to dole out unnecessary violence as their flesh forebears, and other than the robed priests of state-enforced religious figure OHM-0000, everyone is dressed in identical white clothing and have their head shaved or buzzed to the scalp. OHM’s automated confessional booths are, of course, linked directly to the center of the city’s Orwellian panopticon, so all confessions are recorded and monitored to ensure that no citizens are engaged in criminal drug evasion, as the populace is completely controlled in every facet of their lives, down to being assigned roommates for companionship despite strict provisions against sex. THX’s recent disaffection is the result of his withdrawal from one of the state’s main mind control drugs, as his mate LUH-3417 (Maggie McOmie) has secretly been removing them from his provided supplements. 

Although he loves the physical intimacy that the two can suddenly share since she’s removed the veil from his eyes as it has been removed from hers, their changes are observed by SEN-5241 (Donald Pleasence), who has figured out how to make small changes of his own using the computer access that his position allows. He attempts to use this to blackmail THX into becoming his roommate as LUH has already been taken away upon discovery that she’s pregnant, but this backfires when THX reports him for his activity. After an industrial accident caused by an ill-timed application of a “mind lock” by the authorities while THX is in the middle of a delicate moment at work, he’s tried for being an “erotic” and put into a white void of a prison, where SEN is already imprisoned himself. After there’s a lot of puttering around in this space, THX sets out to walk to the edge and get out so that he can find LUH, with SEN following him. The two manage to get to the outside world with relative ease after meeting another escapee named SRT-5752 (Don Pedro Colley), but the not altogether lucid SEN is found fairly quickly. THX eventually manages to escape to the “outer shell” after a car chase with the police in a nifty jet car based on the Lola T70 as the cost of pursuing him eventually becomes higher than the cash value he adds to society, crawling out into the sunlight at the end after learning that LUH’s designation has been “recycled” and applied to her fetus, implying her death. 

It’s a dark ending, and this is a surprisingly bleak film for a filmmaker whose career has never really been marked by (and I mean this with kindness in my heart) much in the way of depth. THX-1138 is surprisingly experimental and surreal. It’s cribbing from a long list of dystopian sources for its narrative and thematic inspiration, notably the aspects of Big Brother’s state-enforced belief systems of 1984 and the drugged populace and sexual taboos of Brave New World. Interestingly, the presence of an automated recording of a confessor in the form of OHM (who is represented visually by a backlit poster of Hans Memling’s 1478 painting Christ Giving His Blessing) presages the current “race for an AI Jesus,” which is so inherently heretical in concept alone that I expect its completion to be heralded by a pillar of fire of a type unseen since the melting of the golden calf at the foot of Mt. Sinai. Visually, the film incorporates a lot of shots of computer monitors and readouts that are shot with such extreme closeup that their meaning is lost, while recordings of THX and LUH are played over and over again in command centers while being illustrated on an oscilloscope. The film’s climactic car chase scene takes place in the BART underground system, which was still under construction at the time, and it looks fantastic. That is to say, it looks fantastic once it gets there. 

Beforehand, in the available edition, there’s a poorly rendered sequence of THX’s stolen jet car zooming around on the streets. Everything about it looks cheap and tawdry, like a low-effort Speed Racer sequence thrown in because that was what Lucas imagined thirty years prior and couldn’t pull off, but now he “can,” so he will have his way come hell or high water. Every time some stupid updated special effect appeared on screen, it looked dated and awful, genuinely worse than the gorgeously shot film surrounding it. It’s as if Lucas was so focused on communicating the literal vision that he had (or remembered having after decades of having time to dwell on it) that he lost sight of the fact that he had a good movie already, and he did the revisionist equivalent of smearing feces on it. There is an upload of the Laserdisc edition online—it’s not hard to find—and I went back and watched the sequences where I remembered the CGI standing out, and it’s all completely unnecessary. Bad CGI is used to transition through several floors of workers milling about before descending to the lower level where SEN confronts THX in the director’s cut, whereas the original version just starts the scene there, and it’s infinitely better for not having garbage digital effects added in for no narrative purpose. There’s a scene where THX has almost made it to the outer shell and his potential freedom where he must fend off a “shell dweller,” a kind of simian monkey we had seen a previous specimen of in the white void prison. If you watch Lucas’s preferred version, they’re represented by what are basically hairy Gungans with no believable screen presence; in the original, we see what could perhaps be described as children in Planet of the Apes Halloween costumes, and yet that still looks better and would be preferable to the updated edition. 

There’s nothing narratively groundbreaking about THX-1138, but as a piece of filmmaking, it’s a bold outing for a first time director whose reputation would diminish as his career went on. This may be the equal of Star Wars in just how good it is, minus Lucas’s ill-advised fudging of his early career work. It won’t have the same broad appeal, and it definitely sags a bit in the middle as we dwell a little too long on SEN’s meaningless babbling during imprisonment, but as a cerebral, artistic oddity, it’s worth checking out. At the same time, it’s also worth waiting to see if we ever get a restored version without the extraneous and distracting VFX. 

-Mark “Boomer” Redmond