I have always enjoyed movies. But at some point I started to think of movies as more than just entertainment. I began to view them as a movie critic would, rather than just a casual viewer. Because of this perspective, I think of "Apocalypse Now" as one of the best American made movies I have ever seen. As a student of and an active participant in the late twentieth century media age, I feel justified in making this statement. In my lifetime of observation of American media, including fourteen months of intense movie watching in conjunction with my employment at a local video store, I have had an opportunity to observe a broad sampling of the films, and feel more than qualified to make this statement. By referring to
In 1998, Touchstone Pictures released Armaggedon, the most recent in a premillenial barrage of films focused on the end of the world. The film included a trendy Hollywood cast, headlined by Bruce Willis, Billy Bob Thornton, and Ben Affleck, and was directed by Michael Bay, whose previous film credits included the 1996 top ten hit, The Rock. Although Armageddon received nods from the Academy of Motion Pictures for Best Effects (Sound Effects Editing and Visual Effects), Best Music (Song), and Best Sound, film critics were not so enthusiastic. On average, Armageddon received 1½ to two stars. The American public, on the other hand, made Armageddon the second most profitable film of 1998, exceeding its "sister" film, Deep
He waited until the night’s 11th hour. By now the Princess rested in the highest tower of the castle, locked away from the dangerous world, yet so oblivious to the dangers that which fated the rest of her life. Silently the peasant journeyed outside, where he stopped at the wall of the tower where she lay. He watched her in the darkness from below, lifting his face to her, letting the light rest on his every surface of darkness. The night was cloudless. The winds wailed between the motionless oak trees as its thin branches clawed out, ever so slightly disturbing the leaves with its hostile screeches. Not the thick moss of the trees nor the damp leaves squirming in his toes could distract the peasant from so enticing a scent. All that encircled him was the sweetness of lavender and rosewood, filling his entire being as he sunk into the grass, like sand washed over by the water, with every breeze passing
Tom woke up when he heard the CLAMORING of the sailors outside his room on the ship. He hobbled over to the door, and when he opened it, he groaned at the scene before him. A crowd of rambunctious men circled around two individuals who appeared to be arm-wrestling. Each of them CHANTED loudly for their favorite wrestler to win. He jumped when he heard someone say, "Morning!" behind him.
Red. The color had become sickening after all this time. Neko no longer remembered how long it had been since that accursed day, but he had grown too tired to care. Any grasp of time was lost on this desolate land. It must have been months, he thought, as his hair was long enough to touch his shoulders and food supplies were becoming scarce. He remembered vividly when everything had gone wrong and he couldn’t stop reliving the moment over and over again.
“I’ll never hit you in the face where it will leave a mark...” The words rushed in, taunting. The cold emptiness in the tone, like he was there in the room, whispering in her ear. And all at once, the fear was back. The raw fear that gripped her body like a vice and left her gulping in air. In a panic, she whirled her head around the room. She was alone. Relief flooded her, but the sickening butterflies remained. She gripped the counter until her knuckles turned white; outlining the jagged scar more prominently, and she fought to steady her breathing, blink back the tears, focus on something else.
Disrupted by the sound of an uncanny knock, the prince swore over the bitter winter’s night in great frustration. The sound of his footsteps echoed against the golden walls, shattering the omnipresent silence as he trotted down the staircase, that were exquisitely engraved with flowers and vines. The markings of violence were etched onto the cold marble of the scored floor. The deafening wind pounded against the walls as if rebuking his foul words and as he approached the door an aromatic smell seized his nose as he yanked the portal open. A woman was loitering in the shadow with her wrinkly hands grasping firmly onto a single rose. The swirls of incense in the air was distinctive but he never realised that it would linger on with him for
Smooth, thin, and cold, the sharp object lying in her hands trembled due to her petite quivering fingers. The unforgiving sharp blade effortlessly sliced through her skin, pain and then numbness overshadowed her thoughts. With the world weighing down on her shoulders and with the sense of oppression, the girl carved into her arm without a feeling of regret. Daring, she placed the knife parallel to her veins located under her thin pasty skin. Finally, with resolution, digging the knife into her small arm, the young tortured girl could feel the deadly weapon tearing and mutilating her long tender veins. Gasping for breath, the pain surged throughout her body. However, with agony coursing through her body, the victim would not stop her leisurely stroll to the grave.
As he stomped down the hall dressed in all black, I timidly stepped to the other side of the hallway with my head down avoiding any type of interaction. When the sounds of boots and chains faded away, I was overwhelmed with relief. Nothing had calmed me more than this instant; nothing had been more soothing than the sound of pure nothingness. The fear that came over me was like being trapped in a small room with no way out. I felt helpless, defenseless, like something was going to happen to me in that hallway with the boy dressed in black.
Jolie tried her hardest to remain quiet as she entered the dark, musty basement that smelt like dead animals. The music played loudly, which masked the creaks of the stairs she stepped on. She gripped the broom tightly in her hand. Jolie squinted her eyes around to make out anything that made the music turn on or the loud crashes. Her eyes rested on a man and she tried her hardest not to panic. She quickly, but quietly turned around and walked up the stairs trying to remain calm all the while. When the man started humming along with the violin music she began to cry; she didn’t want to cry. Jolie gripped the railing and the broom slipped from her hand and fell down the stairs. The man jerked around made eye contact with her. He was frowning and then a devilish smirk appeared. She let out the scream she had been holding in for what seemed like forever. Jolie
When Joseph Conrad sat down to write Heart of Darkness over a century ago he decided to set his tale amidst his own country's involvement in the African Congo. Deep in the African jungle his character would make his journey to find the Captain gone astray. Over eighty years later Francis Ford Coppola's Willard would take his journey not in Afica but in the jungles of South Asia. Coppola's Film, Apocalypse Now uses the backdrop of the American Vietnam War yet the similarities between the Conrad's novel and Coppola's film remains constant and plenty.
Her mind awakened before her eyes could opened and a thirst plagued her. Soft lips were licked and slender fingers laced through locks that rivaled the darkness of a black sky, as though her mind ached. Finally, a fan of thick lashes lifted and one thing remained: the fire in those eyes. Though Bella could not recall the last few details of her turning, she knew that she had been turned. Fingers and she felt a slight weakness and a burning hunger in the pit of her being, but the girl trudged on with her new found self. Isabella sat up. The girl propped up with her hands behind her, fine digits sunk into the luxurious surface of a very ornate bed as she scanned the room. Alistair, was indeed there, but she stared at a nearby lit candle. The fire was so mesmerizing. The light dancing in her eyes as hunger plagued her, but she paid it no mind, despite how indescribably weak she was feeling. With a sift sigh her support gave out once more and she laid upon her side and watched the dancing flame of the candle. "Alistair." The name a soft whisper upon her barely hued lips. Surprisingly enough a soft little laugh escaped her lips as
Purple bruises were scattered across her frail wrist like grotesque, swollen beetles. Her knee jutted out awkwardly to her side. Her bleeding, cracked lips were shrunken to a tiny buttonhole. Her tongue stuck out between her teeth like a piece of rubber. Her eyelids fluttered feebly as she lay there - defeated, defenseless, and desolate. Her chest heaved up and down, as her lungs fought for breath – she was barely alive. A caked, muddy trail of shoeprints followed him out the door. He had gotten away again. Tears prickled at the back of my eyes. My throat swelled up as my steely resolve began to dissolve. Grief shook my shoulders like an inner earthquake, the world around me crashing down. A nauseating mixture of relief and horror clenched tightly onto my loins – like when you finally stop an itch, only to realize that you’ve ripped a hole in your
“Let me through!” The erratic mother screamed, pushing through the barricade of bodies. The spike stunned her to the ground, it could not be. “No…” it was that broken whisper that pulled Lourdes out of the