I Do Movies Badly

Kind Hearts and Coronets may have been delightful, but The Man in the White Suit is delightful! A great comedic performance from Alec Guinness centers a film with a clear focus on what it's satirizing, resulting in enough cathartic laughs and cynicism of capitalism to make Billy Wilder proud. Happy Thanksgiving!

Jim keeps this episode on Kind Hearts and Coronets light and airy, just like the film itself. 

I Do Movies Badly hall-of-famer Gavin Mevius returns to bring some joy back to the world (or, at the very least, to the podcast) by recommending some comedies from Britain's Ealing Studios! Gavin fills us in on the studio that, though only active from 1947 - 1957, gave us Alec Guinness and Peter Sellers as well multiple comedies of manners that responded to World War II not with cynicism and film-noir, but with laughter. Sadly, he can only recommend three titles, so he goes with Kind Hearts and Coronets (1949), The Man in the White Suit (1951), and - in the absence of streaming rights for Whisky Galore - The Ladykillers (1951).

October month wraps up with Opera, the best example of what makes up a Dario Argento film both for good and ill. But mainly ill. Jim's done with torturing and objectifying women, thanks very much.  Happy Halloween everybody! And please get out and vote on November 6th!

Now that we've established how to make a giallo, we'll explore how Dario Argento makes a giallo: with a soundtrack that doesn't make sense, troubling attitudes towards women, and a monkey that saves the day.

In order to appreciate Dario Argento, one must first fully appreciate the giallo genre. So, Jim sets out to do just that in this episode, analyizing what constitutes good giallo in order to understand what makes The Cat o' Nine Tails exemplary.

Somehow, Jim and James manage to get sidetracked before the discussion on Argento even begins, but the two eventually do get around to talking about the legendary giallo filmmaker. The two discuss what typifies giallo, how Argento stands apart from Italian compatriots Lucio Fulci and Mario Bava, and how - if at all - viscera for the sake of viscera can be considered art. Also there are tangets. Lots of tangents. And recommendations too!: The Cat o' Nine Tails (1971), Phenomena (1985), and Opera (1987). You read that right - no Suspiria.

The first shall be the last and the last shall be the first. No, it's not the Bible - it's the first film of Guillermo del Toro's career, but the last film in the month (and in Jim's heart), Cronos.

Past Jim had 3 main complaints the last time he watched Crimson Peak: everything was too on-the-nose, the scares weren't scary, and the relationships didn't work. Current Jim is here to explain why those complaints are stupid and why Crimson Peak is excellent.

Perhaps we shouldn't say Guillermo del Toro makes "horror" films, but rather "terror" films. Don't get me wrong - there are plenty of things to be scared of in The Devil's Backbone, but "The One Who Sighs" isn't one of them. After all, what's so scary about ghosts when there's so many horrible things of which the living are capable? 

In the first NEW I Do Movies Badly episode in over a year, Jim talks with Sean "Undercooked Ryan Gosling" Meehan to discuss the films of Guillermo del Toro. The boys discuss the relationship between DPs and directors, del Toro's childlike wonder and empathy for the Other, before disagreeing about if del Toro should finally adapt "At the Mountains of Madness" (he shouldn't) and, ultimately, getting to the recommendatons: The Devil's Backbone (2001), Crimson Peak (2015), and Cronos (1993). 

After walking away from I Do Movies Badly one year ago, Jim Rohner returns to the podcast that he had intended to leave forever to lay the reasons behind the return and to hint at things to come! 

On this, the final episode of I Do Movies Badly, Jim bids a very fond farewell to the guests, listeners, and fans who supported the podcast throughout its tenure.

In which Jim apologizes for many things including: episode delays, continuously apologizing for episode delays, and the next episode delay as he announces - for many reasons - a hiatus for the rest of the month of July.

With Mystery Train, Jim says goodbye to June and Jim Jarmusch, which is fitting for a filmmaker whose elegiac work seems to deal with traveling, transitions, and hanging onto a pride from times and places that once were.

All the quirks and indie filmmaking tropes that made Paterson work seem not to make Dead Man work.

Why is it when nothing supposedly happens (during the mundane, the routine, the regular), we assume that art can't be found? Paterson - both the film and the man in the film - are able to find the poetry in the mundane and value it just for being.

You know what's cool? Rock and roll music. Sloths. Jim Jarmusch. Kristen Sales espouses the coolness of all of these things, but it is primarily with Jim Jarmusch, the New York City-based musician/filmmaker with whom she is concerned during her second appearance on IDMB. She discusses how he's a dying breed of indie filmmaker, whether he's really as cool as he looks or really just a nerd (or both), and what is so quintessentially American about his work before recommending these three titles: Paterson (2016), Dead Man (1995), and Mystery Train (1989).

A documentary about some of the world's most famous fakers from one of cinema's greatest fakers. I mean that as a compliment.