Hereditary felt like a revelation when it came out last year partly because it was a real movie, with real actors, and real depth and complexity, which happened to be a horror film. As a massive fan of the horror genre, I can tell you that films like that don’t come along all that often. Other films I can think of in that category in recent memory are Let the Right One In, Mandy, The Witch and Get Out. All of which you should watch immediately if you haven’t already. Hereditary was also something of a crossover hit and was talked about and seen by way more people than a horror film usually would be, probably because of the presence of – and incredible performance by – Toni Collette.
The thing about Hereditary is that the most horrifying parts of the film have nothing to do with the supernatural. In a way it almost feels like two movies. The most visceral and memorable moments of the film are rooted in things that are very much of this earth: grief, trauma, blame, guilt, mental illness. Themes that are familiar and awful parts of the human experience. Filmmaker Ari Aster has an incredible gift for conveying the emotion of sheer sickening dread that I’ve rarely seen done so well. Maybe the only other film I can think of that gave me that feeling of a full-body blow is David Fincher’s Se7en from back in 1995. Or the Tim Roth’s film The War Zone, and some films by Lars Von Trier. For me, the satanic and creepy elements of Hereditary even felt a little weak in comparison.
By snapshot I definitely do not mean photo because anyone who knows me, knows I consider taking photos some kind of punishment. I once spent six months in Africa and didn’t take a single photo. That is not a brag, it’s actually pretty stupid and embarrassing. I only joined Instagram a few months ago. Words are my preferred medium OK!
I do however want to capture these initial impressions I’ve had of living in America, before they start to seem totally normal and not worth even noting. It’s already starting to happen.
I know, I know. No one writes music reviews anymore. See depressing musings on that topic here and here. I used to love reading them as much as I loved writing them. I wrote so many live music reviews in my time. I would stand there with my little notepad, trying to be discreet – writing snatches of lyrics to songs I didn’t know the names of that I would google later. I took it so seriously, and now it has all but disappeared as a genre. Oh well. Like so many things, I’m glad I got to enjoy it while it lasted.
In other news, oh my god I love Pissed Jeans. I saw them at Lee’s Palace in Toronto many moons ago and I never got it out of my head. Ever. Their onslaught of tight tight heaviness. The insane slinkiness of their singer (Matt Korvette). There was something so sick and yet so magnetic about that band. They lay dormant in my mind but I never crossed paths with them again – until now!
This past year, while being one of the most difficult of my life, has also been amazing for many things. One of those things is reading. For some reason, when I am single I always read more. I know that sounds really bad, like, ‘I’ve found a man now, I don’t need to be smart’, but actually I think it’s just a time thing. When you’re in a relationship so much of your leisure time goes to hanging out with that person. It doesn’t help that every person I’ve dated was not a reader (except for one, the German, I loved talking about books with him). Every time I’m newly single (god, that’s a depressing thing to write) one of the first things I do is get straight back into reading.
So. I’ve just moved to Brooklyn, and one of the first things I do when I move somewhere is join the library. I feel like I need to write a whole book, or maybe just a blog post, about how much I fucking love libraries at some point. I don’t think I know a single person my age who has a library card and it drives me crazy (edit – I met one!). I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again – public libraries are the greatest thing organised society has come up with.