
Dom Sinacola
Contributor at Freelance
Movie Critic at Portland Mercury
Contributor at Paste
Writer at The Werner Herzblog
contributor: @pastemagazine @portlandmercury; former editor: @cmgzine; founder: The Werner Herzblog: https://t.co/YcZ1qDOfoy
Articles
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1 day ago |
portlandmercury.com | Dom Sinacola
In writer-director Paul Schraderâs Grand Guignol of white guy shame, 1979âs Hardcore, George C. Scott is Jake VanDorn, a middle-aged small business owner from Grand Rapids, Michigan who must travel to California to rescue his teenage daughter from the porn industry.
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2 weeks ago |
portlandmercury.com | Dom Sinacola
At the Oscars in March, Best Director Sean Baker took the stage with a warning: “Right now the theater-going experience is under threat. Movie theaters, and especially independently-owned theaters, are struggling, and it’s up to us to support them.” Living in Portland, you may not witness that struggle first-hand.
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1 month ago |
portlandmercury.com | Dom Sinacola
All war movies are now anti-war movies—that is, if an anti-war movie is measured by the severity of its misery. This is an unceasing human imperative in art: to showcase our species’ darkest atrocities through a transcendent exploration of the suffering those atrocities inflict, but to go even more HAM about it than the last guy. To make every war movie more upsetting than the previous war movie.
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1 month ago |
portlandmercury.com | Dom Sinacola
Direct Action has no characters. Someone may appear in one scene, and then, several sequences later, enter the frame again. Maybe. Direct Action never names anyone; it only shows you their hands—picking through a mud-heavy bucket, playing piano, or making a huge mass of dough, the camera locked on the pile of flour and pool of water and sunned forearms and gyrating fingers combining everything over the course of nine luxurious, unbroken minutes. Do we ever see those forearms again?
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2 months ago |
portlandmercury.com | Dom Sinacola
Depending on how one wants to categorize ground chuck, at least two people in The Monkey are ground into it. The first is the victim of a horse stampede, and the other becomes a meaty mess via lawnmower. We learn about the former when a sleeping bag is casually overturned, slopping out smushed man-oatmeal.
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