I don't know anything about the specs of any firearm. Aspects such as fire rate, firepower, recoil rate, magazine capacity, etc. are all beyond my knowledge. I do know that a gun is a machine, and like other machines, it can be prone to a degree of malfunction--bullets can get lodged in the chamber, for example, and since guns are made of metal and produce heat, metal can expand and subsequently affect the firing rate, recoil, and accuracy of the machine with continuous use. If I ever went to a gun dealer and had the need to purchase and use a firearm, this is all the bullshit that I would ask the gun dealer about (and of course, how much is this thing going to cost?). I do not, however, ever anticipate the need to purchase a firearm and hope I never purchase or own one. I also do not arm myself with this degree of critical analysis when I go into a cinema to watch a movie. From years of movie watching, I know the general rule: the bigger the gun, the more damage it produces and the bigger the explosion on the screen. If, for example, Lee Van Cleef rode up on his horse in front of three or four bandits, and then shot twenty to thirty bullets out of his six-shooter without reloading and turned the bandits into piecemeal, I'm cheering. Lee Van Cleef was a bad mofo on screen--period. I'll forgive the fact that I know in the real world, a gun which holds six bullets cannot shoot twenty or thirty. When I watch a film which deals with, again for example, characters who engage in my own profession, I will often forgive the fact that the depiction of my profession on screen often differs from the reality from my experience in the profession. Cinema has its own unspoken rules and is in itself, its own reality. However, when cinema wants to shoot for some credibility and adhere to the rules of the world of its viewers, then I'll take note. Not only will I take note, I will judge what's on screen by its rules.
Take, for example, the film under review here, Renny Harlin's The Long Kiss Goodnight (1996), specifically, for example, one scene. Geena Davis plays the heroine/anti-heroine, who has a personality schism resulting from amnesia, where in her previous life she was a government agent engaged in "counter assassination" to her new life where she's a Donna Reed-ish loving wife and mother, baking cookies and hosting Christmas parties, and Samuel Jackson plays a shady, wise-cracking private eye who is helping Davis's character discover her previous identity. The two arrive at a train station to meet Dr. Nathan Waldman (Brian Cox) who demands to meet Davis's character there. He knows her true identity and knows that she's in danger. Jackson's character has this habit of singing a song detailing what he is doing, so he sings aloud that he is putting his car keys in his left pocket and his gun, which he pulls from the trunk, into his right pocket upon the two's arrival. Hint, hint. Davis's character looks to the right of the train station where in the background is a sign which reads "Danger. Thin Ice." Hint, hint, again. The two enter the train station, and whoops, a shootout occurs when the bad guys arrive. Davis and Jackson's characters flee to an upper level of the train station and are pinned in a hallway between the bad guys below and an incoming grenade. Jackson's character emphasizes this point by yelling aloud that there is no way out. He tells Davis's character that he only has three shots left in his revolver (which I presume only holds six) and hands her a machine gun. Davis's character grabs his revolver and fires the remaining shots at a window at the end of the hallway, and the two run towards it and jump out of the now cracked glass (which gives away). During their fall, Davis's character sprays a bunch of bullets on the thin ice, cracking it and creating a safe landing for her and Jackson's character. 
Did I need to know that Jackson had a revolver before going into the train station? If he pulled the revolver and began shooting, would I, the viewer, be surprised? The Long Kiss Goodnight already established that Jackson's character was a private eye and shady. Is it so far-fetched that he would hold a firearm? Did I need to know that the ice was thin? How thin was it? Obviously thin enough that machine gun bullets could crack it but supposedly not thin enough that two grown adults could not crack the ice with their own body weight. Aren't signs detailing "dangerous thin ice" for skaters or for unsuspecting folks who might simply walk across the ice and fall in? Why did I need to know that Jackson's revolver had only three bullets? Three bullets, I suppose, is enough to crack the glass of the window pane, but it would not leave enough ammunition for Davis' character to crack the ice below. Did Jackson's character have to yell "no way out," when it was clearly established that the bad guys were below and the shot of the hallway was tight, clearly delineating no other exits?
I wanted to have fun while watching Harlin's follow-up to his flop, Cutthroat Island (1995). The Long Kiss Goodnight boasts two very talented actors as its leads and is also the only collaboration between director Harlin and screenwriter, Shane Black. Of all the props and gadgets and technicians and stunt people paid for and paid by, respectively, the budget, the three biggest assets were Davis, Jackson, and Black. Black's previous action scripts such as Lethal Weapon (1987) and The Last Boy Scout (1991) contained uneven dialogue and formulaic plots, yet both were successful: while some of his dialogue sounded tinny and/or trite, the overwhelming majority of it was extremely witty and quick. The two leads of both films, Mel Gibson and Danny Glover and Bruce Willis and Damon Wayans, respectively, possessed an immediate chemistry, and Black's dialogue fueled their chemistry, instead of sounding simply hip or self-referential. (Black's best script has subsequently come with his sole directorial credit, Kiss Kiss Bang Bang (2005).) Davis and Jackson possess a very strong chemistry, as well, and while Black's dialogue feels at times a retread of his previous work, overall in The Long Kiss Goodnight, the majority of it is in his signature quick-witted style. Prior to her role in Long Kiss, Geena Davis had proven herself an actress who could play extremely diverse roles. She was super sweet and funny in Beetlejuice (1988) and was absolutely fantastic in her dramatic roles such as Thelma and Louise (1991). Samuel Jackson was appearing in almost every film subsequent to his breakout role in Pulp Fiction (1994), and audiences could not get enough of his charisma: leave a camera static on Jackson, feed him some over-the-top dialogue, and he delivered. Black penned a good role for Davis, since she easily handled her "dual" role: she's sweet and sugary in her motherly role and acid-tongued and defiant (and quite credible) in her badass role. Likewise, Black must have had a field day writing for Jackson: his comedic timing and delivery are almost pitch-perfect. It's too fun watching Jackson.
Remember what I said previously about rules? Eff 'em. As soon as I make a rule for myself I want to break it. (Normally, I attempt to leave the pronoun "I" as much as possible out of my reviews, but with this entry, I've blown that rule to bits.) Likewise in the second half of The Long Kiss Goodnight, Harlin and company abandoned their quest for verisimilitude and credibility. During the first hour of the film, I felt as a viewer in an adversarial position with the film makers: there was such a labored over-exposition in the film, as if the film makers were trying to prove their case for real-world credibility. The action set-ups were grounded to appear in logic yet wanting also to be gloriously over-the-top and exciting. During the second hour of Long Kiss, (in my best Maude Lebowski impression) the plot becomes ludicrous and the intensity and frequency of the action scenes becomes the focus. When the participants of Long Kiss loosen up, surprise, surprise, the film becomes infectious fun. Watching a platinum-blonde Davis skate across an iced-over pond while firing two guns at a moving car; or watching her pull a gun from a dead man's crotch while underwater in a medieval act of torture; or watching her dispense fuel from a baby doll in order to create an explosion for a daring escape are scenes of Hollywood Action Movie bliss. No one is having as much fun as Davis: when she recalls her previous identity of being a government assassin, she's devilishly good, always sexy, and really intense at times. She also reserves quite a few tender moments (although some are strained) in the final act. Davis's character and actions provide the fuel for Jackson's character, and he feeds off her character by always providing an engaging foil. He never loses a beat in his timing. Throughout the whole film, Jackson, like Davis, is completely charming and often sympathetic.
At two hours, The Long Kiss Goodnight could dispense with a lot in the first act. However, I've truly softened towards it during the years (and to director Renny Harlin who received a lot of harsh criticism over those same years). When it wants to be, it's a phenomenal Hollywood action movie. When it goes for something else, it 1.) induces a rant by a blowhard blogger and 2.) really polarizes the problems of big-budget Hollywood films. Anyway, staying in the world of cinema is a lot more fun for the folks on both sides of the screen.
As for Kagenuma's character and background, it is shrouded in mystery in Akumu Tantei. As for the plot of Akumu Tantei, Tsukamoto crafts a mystery, a thriller involving a killer who is murdering others who are on the brink of suicide. The police encounter two deaths, one of a twenty-year old woman and the other, a married salaryman with a fondness for junk food. Both deaths appear to be suicides: case closed. However, the link between the two deaths is a phone number on both victims' cell phones, noted only as the number "0." Believing that it is prudent to investigate this odd and suspicious link between the two victims, the police plan on calling the number to identify the holder of the "0" phone number. Maybe the two deaths were not suicides at all and perhaps the voice on the phone induced his victims into killing themselves. Or maybe something sicker and more sinister is occurring. Keiko (hitomi) has just become a police detective and the caller "0" case is her first. Keiko is put in charge of investigating whether dreams had anything to do with the killings and she is led to an encounter with Kagenuma.
For a film maker who possesses a unique and powerful imagination, Akumu Tantei, at first blush, appears traditional and conventional, coming from a director whose previous works could rarely be labeled as such. This observation would be mostly correct. However, upon closer inspection (and perhaps subsequent viewings), this observation is proved wholly false as Akumu Tantei is much deeper and richer than its surface narrative would have its viewer believe. The film's creativity lies within its characters, primarily three, caller "0," Keiko, and of course, Kagenuma. As these three are drawn together in Tsukamoto's web, the complexity to their characters is revealed as the narrative mystery is also seamlessly revealed. The modus operandi of caller "0" is slick and creatively rendered: one who allegedly murders his victims on the brink of suicide. The interesting question is why: murder as an action, in these circumstances, would be redundant. Tsukamoto's imagination provides a very compelling and offbeat answer to this question. Keiko is not a typical newbie to the police force: she's not a rookie out of the academy, bright-eyed and green; but rather, Keiko has sought a demotion to detective from an elite position within the government's ministry. Again the most compelling question is why: what drives hitomi's Keiko to leave a prestigious job, with presumably more comfort, to engage in police investigation where the hours are long, the cases intense and bloody, and the prestige is almost non-existent. "You might not want to wear high heels," a colleague tells Keiko during her first crime scene investigation. "You might have to run." "Is that an order?" asks Keiko, not even looking at her colleague as she strolls up the stairs.
The titular character of the film with a somewhat deceiving English-language title, Kagenuma, has the most mystery and is a completely torn character, reluctantly drawn into the action by the film's narrative. (A viewing of Akumu Tantei's sequel, Akumu Tantei 2 (2009), also directed by Tsukamoto, goes much deeper into his character. The two films richly play to each other, and the sequel seriously informs a viewing of the original. However, discussion of the sequel is for another day.) Tsukamoto does not give any exposition or overt background to his character: everything about Kagenuma is revealed through his character's interactions or through Tsukamoto's compositions. Both are very well done. The opening of the film is very creative and Kagenuma's appearance is effective. To describe it would be to ruin it, as the opening is so subtly crafted. Keiko's first meeting with Kagenuma is memorable: watching how Tsukamoto blocks his characters and frames them speaks louder than the characters' dialogue. Within the final act of Akumu Tantei, Tsukamoto blends both the imagery and what is hidden in his three primary characters powerfully.
Visually, Akumu Tantei prefers the dark, and the "nightmare" alluded to in the English-language title is appropriate. Whenever Tsukamoto has the opportunity to paint his characters in the dark, he does. To say that light is used judiciously is an understatement and when light is used, it is effective. Some familiar and signature Tsukamoto visuals are present, such as the p.o.v. shot flying down corridors or alleys and shaking accompanying camerawork. When Tsukamoto's films take a turn into dreamland, the mise-en-scene rapidly changes: the odd close-up on something innocuous, the hyper-odd special effect or gore scene coming totally unexpected, and cross-cuts from the present into somewhere else, either the past or a time that doesn't exist. With Akumu Tantei, Tsukamoto delivers again with his visuals.
Gorgeous 
Director Roger Vadim "is now best known as the husband, or lover, of various famous women--Brigitte Bardot, Jane Fonda, Catherine Deneuve etc--an image he has fostered in books and interviews in recent years. A shame, as it puts into the shade his real achievements as a film-maker of some style and originality...He was always interested in decor and pictorial images as much as in action and character, and for that reason his best films--Blood and Roses, Barbarella, Charlotte--are like glossy, animated photo albums." (from Immoral Tales: European Sex and Horror Movies 1956-1984 by Cathal Tohill and Pete Tombs, St. Martin's Griffin Press, New York, 1995)
The initial memory, or more specifically, the initial image of Charlotte is perhaps what motivates Vadim's Georges to take upon his investigation. From presumably Georges's point of view, the camera reveals Sirpa Lane sitting peacefully in a strikingly arty composition; and as she looks up into the camera, Lane's Charlotte captures Georges's eye, much like Lane, the actress, captures the viewer's eye. Ms. Sirpa Lane is undeniably a beautiful woman, unlike the classical beauties, for example, of Vadim's relationships and previous works. She possesses quite the sensuous aura and charisma and Lane often becomes more seductive, like Charlotte, with every subsequent frame. Likewise, as the above quote accurately alludes, Vadim's portrait of Charlotte is a series of episodes, shot with an obsessive eye to detail and his female lead. Interestingly, at the end of La jeune fille assassinee, Vadim's Georges tells his publisher a very pinpoint and accurate statement--reflecting what he learned about Charlotte through his investigation. The film, as a whole, also corroborates Georges's statement (or conclusion) as to whom Charlotte really is. However, the overall sense of La jeune fille almost belies its conclusion: that is to say, it's a sympathetic portrait of misunderstood woman whose sympathy is engendered because she is misunderstood.
In one scene, Charlotte is sitting at dinner with her family and she is animated and full of life, speaking about her evening plans, while her father sits across from her with labored breathing. Apparently, as he is involved in politics, his situation has become stressful and his work (or the political situation as a whole) is taking a toll on him. In an overt and obvious gesture, he places his palms on his adult daughter's face and gently kisses her forehead like a child. "Charlotte, you're an idiot," he says. Much like most of the scenes in La jeune fille, an objective rendering of this scene is impossible. Why are Charlotte's beliefs and outlook on life subordinate to her father's? Is she an "idiot," because she could care less about politics? Are politics a realm free from their own childlike facets? This dinner scene can be juxtaposed with another which depicts Charlotte in a very childlike manner. Charlotte becomes jealous that her brother, Phillipe, has romantic feelings towards a woman. Charlotte and her sister bound the young woman and begin some nasty hazing upon her. Charlotte's sister is less interested and only tells Charlotte to stop teasing when it gets unbearable both for her victim and herself. Charlotte's teasing and hazing is of a sexual nature (arguably engaging in sexual abuse). However, there is nothing sexy about the scene despite some graphic nudity, and Vadim's camera shoots the scene like a kinky sex sequence with the victim's screams substituting for moans of pleasure and close-up shots of hands bound and clothes being removed. In turn, this scene can be juxtaposed with Charlotte fighting with Phillipe after confronting him with her jealousy. Charlotte is visibly angry and takes to Phillipe with her fists. Vadim, interestingly, steals the occasional close-up shot of Charlotte's nightgown slipping and her exposed crotch and legs. Undeniably, these scenes are for titillation. Whereas the previous scene was clearly a scene of violence with an uncomfortable voyeuristic, sexual take on the depiction, Charlotte's fight with Phillipe is a scene of violence where Vadim doesn't hide his voyeuristic sexual depiction. As each flashback sequence plays against each other, more of Charlotte is revealed. Arguably, none of the flashback sequences are angelic or demonic depictions of Charlotte, and also arguably, none are really objective (stories told from others) or really subjective (Vadim's camera and compositions tell a different story of Charlotte visually).
Obviously, Vadim has creatively rendered La jeune fille assassinee, mixing both the sensational and the intellectual. It's a film about perspectives and how judgemental and less sym/empathetic others often are. Likewise, regardless of what one thinks of Charlotte as a character, Vadim goes to great lengths to depict his female lead as quite sensuous and seductive. Lane does little to hamper him. In one scene, Charlotte and a friend dress up for a private dance and striptease. Vadim dresses his actress like a soldier from the Nutcracker Suite with a ridiculously large top hat and accompanying outfit with a mustache, only to then make his camera static with the soft light while Lane and her charisma and sensuality take over. Watching Charlotte in soft red light confronting Eric in the hallway of a club is also erotic as her character is charged with both undefinable emotion towards Eric and a strong attraction. Eric gives chase to Charlotte to embrace her in the crowded street. Her loose dress falls open, and Lane takes command of the scene. Hauntingly beautiful and sometimes dangerous, always seductive and too complex to pin down.
La jeune fille assassinee feels like a dangerous game of Russian roulette--very serious subject matter with a very playful and creative (yet very serious) storytelling style with sensational and arty scenes side by side or blended together. 
After Tenoch and Ana finish fucking and are tussling around playfully, before the audio drops out and a narrator in a quiet, unassuming style begins talking, the sounds of sirens are heard out of the window of Ana's bedroom. The construction worker whose corpse was blocking traffic had a specific reason for crossing the freeway that day, and the narrator tells why. This narrator also tells the audience why Tenoch is named Tenoch; who Tenoch's father is and what he does in the country; and who is Tenoch's mother and what she does every day. Julio's mother is never seen within Y tu mamá también, but the narrator tells the viewer who she is and what she does for a living. Julio's sister, nicknamed the "Beret" by Julio and Tenoch, is seen by the viewer but she doesn't speak. The narrator tells the viewer what she does and what her future holds. Some of the other folks on Julio, Tenoch, and Luisa's journey have stories as well, and sometimes the narrator will talk about their future. Luisa meets a ninety-five-year-old-woman in a town in front of a table of trinkets, photos, and flowers; and over the phone, Luisa tells Jano that amazingly this woman's memory has full recall and can remember all events since she was five. The old woman gives a memento to Luisa, and this memento has a specific past with an endearing story. Outside of the window of the vehicle on their journey to the beach, Julio, Tenoch, and Luisa see the country outside of Mexico City. The town where Tenoch's maid grew up is spied by Tenoch, and the narrator tells her story while Tenoch silently watches the town go by. He doesn't tell Julio or Luisa of the town. On the road, there are other people in a funeral procession, folks blocking traffic to solicit donations for the queen, and people on the side of the road stopped by the military or the local police. Luisa tells Julio and Tenoch one evening over tequila and beer and dancing that Mexico is a beautiful country.
It is. However, Y tu mamá también is also a story about Julio, Tenoch, and Luisa. While the narrator tells the stories of people whose stories often go untold, the biggest mystery lies behind the Spaniard, Luisa. She is attracted to the two attractive young men: they are both so full of life and wrapped up in their own selves, almost blissfully ignorant of what goes on around them. Luisa knows also that Julio and Tenoch really want the opportunity to sleep with her and she's okay with that. Luisa has let go a lot a more than she lets on as to her life back in Mexico City, so what she experiences on this journey, she is open to all of it. Perhaps inadvertently, while Julio and Tenoch are looking for an opportunity to be physically intimate with Luisa, Luisa teaches the two about intimacy in all its forms. Cuarón saves his revelations towards those characters for the final minutes of his film. 
All three of the leading actors, Luna, Bernal, and especially Verdú as Tenoch, Julio, and Luisa, respectively, are pitch perfect: their performances are so open and vulnerable. Cuarón devotes his camera to them. His style for
Director Olatunde Osunsanmi mixes on-screen interview footage with a person named Dr. Abigail Tyler and himself, footage of video and audio alleged to have been recorded by this doctor and others, and filmed re-enactments of the proceedings with Jovovich as Tyler. Jovovich opens the film as herself (and introduces herself to the audience) and gives a warning that some of the scenes in the film "some may find 'disturbing.'" During the filmed reenactments (aka the plot) when an actor appears for the first time, his/her real name appears in text on screen accompanied by the character he/she is portraying. Within The Fourth Kind, during the reenactments with Jovovich and company, when audio or video footage is being displayed, often Osunsanmi will put a subtitle on the screen below reading "actual" audio or video from original events.
Plot synopsis #1 (bare-bones, no spoilers, primarily as a warning for prospective viewers as the film is quite intense):
The adults in Yuke yuke nidome no shojo appear in extremes from clueless to cruel. A woman hangs her washing on the roof top the morning after the young woman's rape, smiling at the sunshine and the beautiful weather, unaware of last night's events and unobservant as to its aftermath. The building's superintendent who locks the roof top at night barely steps over the threshold of the door to investigate; despite having a flashlight in hand, he might as well be blind instead of uncaring and careless in his job. The young woman was a victim of rape once before the incident on the rooftop; and when she is being raped on-screen by the young group of thugs, her mind collapses and she falls into a dream: two adults run her down at sea side and rape her on the beach. The young man had a particularly violent incident happen to him in an apartment the day before, an incident that he shares with the young woman (in some attempt at gaining her understanding). The couple in Yuke yuke nidome no shojo lack innocence only because of the tragedies that have befallen them but not purity. In reality, these young adults are really children and clueless as well. However, Wakamatsu paints his couple as still having an innate desire to make a human connection despite everything and every one around them attempting to pull them apart. 
Yuke yuke appears so unreal that its reality is polarized. Wakamatsu's unique style benefits thematically as his social criticism never comes off as didactic. Visually, Yuke yuke is stunning. The black and white film gives the volatile events on screen a cooler background. The music is folksy (Wakamatsu admits the music and the songs in the film were written by him, his screenwriter, and his A.D.), and it, like the shooting style, attempt to lull the viewer. The lyrics are poetry with phrases like, "the nitro of love," lacking a true sense of irony which emphasizes its openness and honesty. A color sequence is saved for an intense scene of violence. The violence of the film is harsh, but I don't think Wakamatsu would have it any other way. 
The objective facts about Yuke yuke nidome no shojo are from Wakamatsu's interview included as a supplement on Image Entertainment's 
I've encountered quite a diversity of opinions in my research on Jess Franco's Sinner (1972). The authors of 
Linda (Montserrat Prous) comes from the country to the big city where at a carnival, with her suitcase in hand, she meets an older gentleman who rapes her on the ferris wheel. Linda gets a job with a laundry delivery service and while making her rounds she spies one of her customers, the Countess Anna De Monterey (Anne Libert) having sex with a suitor. The Countess is either curious or taken with young Linda and houses her, eventually having a romantic relationship with her. Eventually, Linda opens up socially and begins a relationship with a man and also with nightclub dancer, Maria (Kali Hansa). Her relationship with Maria causes a rift with her and the Countess, and Linda leaves the Countess's villa. With Maria, Linda gets a fast-track course on both sex and drugs. Linda is eventually arrested and released. A doctor (Howard Vernon) doesn't think Linda is a drug addict and can recover, so he houses her in order to give her treatment. Like all of Linda's relationships within Sinner, it ends badly. The opening sequence of the film is Linda's last day.
