So she's significant but I don't really get how.
Just looked her up. She is. You're right.Nothing at all odd about that... I wonder who his brides will be.
Riley Keogh (the neighbour) is the grandaughter of Elvis right?
Obviously I mentioned that cos Cage was married to her Mum. I should have probably made that explicit.Just looked her up. She is. You're right.
First saw her in that film American HoneyObviously I mentioned that cos Cage was married to her Mum. I should have probably made that explicit.
He actually starts to enjoy himself and comes across better when he stops thinking about the conspiracy and just lives, e.g. when he's dancing to R.E.M. with the balloon girl and watching her performance earlier in the film.And this to me is the big switch in the film: he starts out in the beginning peering out towards the world. He has plenty of problems at home—dysfunctional family relationships, missing rent, unemployment—but he seems more interested in finding something Out There that catches his interest. His own personal dramas are too boring to even be perceived as dramas.
YesHe actually starts to enjoy himself and comes across better when he stops thinking about the conspiracy and just lives, e.g. when he's dancing to R.E.M. with the balloon girl and watching her performance earlier in the film.
The Internet is very good at doing that. Part of the reason magical thinking is proliferatingAs other people have pointed out, the physical environment almost seems responsive to his thoughts and paranoia. What he thinks materializes.
“You know what rich people love? Fucking Egypt,” says Alissa Bennett, director at Gladstone Gallery, zine queen, Lena Dunham’s newly minted podcasting partner, serial muse to artists like Alex Bag, ex-model, and ex-ex-wife of Banks Violette, the bad boy breakout artist of the early aughts. (They married and divorced, twice.)
Gesturing at the majestically tacky granite sculptures of sphinxes flanking the entrance, Bennett murmurs in her wry deadpan, “I can't believe no one leaves this bitch any flowers.” We’re marveling at the hulking Egyptian revival mausoleum of Barbara Hutton, famously dubbed “Poor Little Rich Girl” by the press for throwing a deb ball at the Ritz during the Depression that would have cost $842,000 today. (Within a few years, Woolworth Girls—the little-appreciated cogs in the machine that was Hutton’s father’s well oiled fortune—would lie in wait outside hotels to throw eggs at her.)