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Stream It Or Skip It: ‘Through My Window 2: Across the Sea’ on Netflix, The Return Of The Barely Legal Spanish Sexing Series

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Stream It Or Skip It: ‘Through My Window 2: Across the Sea’ on Netflix, The Return Of The Barely Legal Spanish Sexing Series

Through My Window: Across the Sea (now on Netflix) is the second movie in the Through My Window trilogy of young adult movies in the strictest definition of the descriptor, since it’s about people who are about as young as adults legally get, and act very much like adults in the sense that they’re pretty much constantly schtupping each other. Considering the depth of storytelling occurring in the first two, one can’t help but assume the third will be titled Through My Window: Across the Sea: Into the Crevasse. I’m obligated to report that these Spanish films are based on a series of novels by Ariana Godoy, who might not have a market for her sexy romance stories if the Twilights and Fifty Shadeses of the world didn’t exist; also, the same creative team, from cast to director to screenwriter, have returned for the second film. Which is a way of saying, may your god(s) help you if you actually sit down and try to watch these wretched things. 

The Gist: RECAP: You may recall from the previous film (note: I didn’t recall; thank Jebus for Wikipedia) that our protagonist Raquel (Clara Galle) was a humble young budding writer who fell for her rich-as-eff neighbor Ares (Julio Pena) after an asinine wifi mishap resulted in him climbing through her window so they could consummate their long-gestating EXPLOSIVE LUST. I’m condensing and simplifying things, but that’s it in a nutshell. It’s about a year later, and Raquel is studying lit at a local university and working to publish her OMG-amazingly well-written book titled Through My Window while Ares is off in Stockholm studying medicine after passing on his predestined post at his megarich family’s megacorporation. They haven’t seen each other in, I dunno, many millenniums. Has absence made their hearts grow fonder or fungus? Well, I smell something here, and it’s definitely not fondness.

It’s the end of the school year. Raquel gets chewed by her prof for writing real good but not being a real good student because she’s always texting Ares. And Ares’ ass be flunking real good and he spends his nights writhing around in a hot funky depression. They’ve been yearning real hard. Oh, their yearning is mighty and vast. Raquel leaves her last lecture and hangs with her besties Yoshi (Guillermo Lasheras) and Daniela (Natalia Azahara), and staves off the nice-guy romantic interest of her classmate Greg (Ivan Lapadula), and turns around and who’s standing there but Ares, who somehow knew exactly where she’d be even though she probably didn’t know exactly where she’d be. Must be some really potent pheromones hanging in the air there, and this is when we realize nine incredibly long, incredibly tedious minutes have passed without a sex scene. Well, at least a sex scene that isn’t a fantasy dreamt up by Ares and Raquel while they have phone nookie.

Ares doesn’t even ask before he whisks Raquel off to his family’s seaside manse – he broke into her house and packed a bag for her, including all her skimpiest bathing suits, which was so very nice of him. They’re about to pull down each other’s pants in a frenzy of prurience when whaddaya know, his brothers Apolo (Hugo Arbues) and Artemis (Eric Masip) arrive, and so do Daniela and Yoshi, and Claudia (Emilia Lazo) the family housekeeper who’s secretly banging Artemis, and Ares’ parents. It’s a got dang party now, so everyone hits the pool to partake in a montage of close-up ice-cream-cone licking cut with not-quite-as-close-up softcore genital confluence, hopefully all followed by plenty of hydration, because between the heavy dairy consumption and the gross exchange of fluids, someone’s bound to get the bends.

Complications occur that are so banal and wispy they’d be blasted right out of the movie by a gnat fart, but I’m obligated to get into it, at least a little. Claudia wants to stop sneaking around with Artemis and make their relationship public and official. Yoshi seems to be harboring a crush on Raquel but a new character named Anna (Carla Tous) not so subtly expresses interest in jumping his bones. Greg, whose family just so happens to own a nearby restaurant, definitely harbors a crush on Raquel, and he just so happens to know Ares, too. Small world! But – how are Ares and Raquel doing? Peachy keen! Until – uh oh – his childhood friend Vera (Andrea Chaparro) crashes the party and is incredibly bubbly and outgoing and seems to have spent a lot of time with Ares recently, which he never seemed to mention to Raquel. Her arrival sets off the first of the many petty jealousies comprising this sub-imbecilic plot. Will Raquel and Ares’ romance endure, or are we just here to watch all the attractive young people drop their bottoms and thrust their butts?

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THROUGH MY WINDOW: ACROSS THE SEA
Photo: NETFLIX

What Movies Will It Remind You Of?: The Through My Windows are terrible, but they lack the possibly unintentional comedy of 50 Shades of Grey and the appalling toxicity of the 365 Dayses. Meanwhile, over on Prime Video, the similarly themed My Fault has been drawing heavy viewership of late.

Performance Worth Watching: Let’s forego the superhuman Plastic-Man stretching required to levy a compliment at the cast (the screenplay doesn’t help them a bit, to be fair), and just say that the cinematographer appears to be quite the expert in photographing torsos and glutes. 

Memorable Dialogue: Ares invokes the films’ signature symbolic visual motif when he explains how he got into Raquel’s house to pack her stuff for a weekend away: “Let’s say I’m good with windows.”

Sex and Skin: Scads and heaps and mounds of it, but never giving us a full-frontal eyeful.

Our Take: A long, viscous string of drool hangs precariously from my lip like Tom Cruise on a cliff face. It has the viscosity of camel sputum. It snaps off and twists in the wind as it falls, down, down, down. The sun beats on my face like a beaver tail slapping mud betwixt the brittle bows of its den. I thirst. This ordeal has just begun and I’m already parched and desperate. Am I dying? I think I’m dying. Somewhere along the path to this predicament I had made a grave mistake. Regret bubbles into my throat like hot bile. Do I deserve to go out like this? With such great suffering? I swallow it down hard like a horse pill scraping down my desiccated throat. It’s only 111 minutes, I tell myself. You’ll be OK. But I’m a liar and I know it.

However! Fear thee not, dear reader. I persevered. I do not pen this missive from the beyond. I wrapped the leather bridle straps around my chapped hands and hung on for dear life through this maelstrom of pointless hokum, which inevitably concludes with a cliffhanger (which is so calculable as to be laughable), but not before all the principal characters have shown their asses in fits of animal aphrodisia. Sex is to this movie as oxygen is to the mammalian lung – it goes in and it goes out with such frequency, we no longer notice it’s even happening. These people are all himbo CHUDs and gussied bimbos, save for the two odd-duck characters (you can differentiate them by their wildly colored hair) who are socially awkward but not so much that they can’t aim their pudenda in the right direction. 

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I’ve seen many of this type of movie, the type that exists to string together sex scenes with laughably kitschy plot dreck. But Through My Window 2 forgets that it should be winking at us and nudging our ribs, and might just be insisting we take seriously the empty emotional overtures of its very pretty, very petty characters. It may hope you’ll take solace in all the f—ing. So much f—ing. Too bad it also f—ing sucks.

Our Call: CAST IT OUT TO SEA! SKIP IT. 

John Serba is a freelance writer and film critic based in Grand Rapids, Michigan.

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Movie Reviews

Kinds of Kindness: Poor Things director at his most elusive

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Kinds of Kindness: Poor Things director at his most elusive

In the first, “The Death of R.M.F.”, Jesse Plemons plays Robert, a man who appears in thrall to Raymond (Willem Dafoe), who sets Robert’s agenda, from his diet to his sexual encounters.

In the second, “R.M.F. Is Flying”, Plemons plays Daniel, a cop whose wife Liz (Emma Stone) has gone missing; when she returns, he is convinced she is an imposter.

Finally, in “R.M.F. Eats a Sandwich”, Stone plays Emily, a woman who seeks out a cult leader (Dafoe) for a spiritual and sexual awakening.

Hong Chau in a still from Kinds of Kindness. Photo: Atsushi Nishijima

Inevitably, as is the case with most portmanteau films, one episode stands out – in this case “The Death of R.M.F.”, which has an unnerving quality to it.

The second instalment is the most shocking, featuring Liz and Daniel sitting around with friends (Mamoudou Athie and Margaret Qualley) watching a highly explicit sex tape the four of them made.

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Bringing up the rear is the final short, which rather drags with its depictions of sweat lodges, bodily contamination, and Stone skidding around in her cool-looking Dodge Challenger.

With Hong Chau (The Whale) and Joe Alwyn (who featured in Lanthimos’ The Favourite) also appearing, it is undoubtedly a fine cast, one led by Plemons, who truly understands how to perform in the Lanthimos style.

Stone, now on her third movie with the Greek director, seems to relish the extremes she gets to go to.

(From left) Willem Dafoe, Jesse Plemons and Hong Chau in a still from Kinds of Kindness. Photo: Atsushi Nishijima

Quite what it all means, however, is another thing entirely. The characters seem to be in states of crisis, with miscarriage a common theme.

Looking at humanity in all its weirdness, Kinds of Kindness is a baffling film to take in, as abrasive as its musical score from Jerskin Fendrix, who performed similar tricks on Poor Things.

Certainly, compared to his more accessible films, such as The Favourite and Poor Things, this feels like Lanthimos at his most elusive and frustrating.

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‘Elizabeth Taylor: The Lost Tapes’ Review: A Legend Opens Up in Nanette Burstein’s Engaging HBO Doc Based on Rediscovered Audio Recordings

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‘Elizabeth Taylor: The Lost Tapes’ Review: A Legend Opens Up in Nanette Burstein’s Engaging HBO Doc Based on Rediscovered Audio Recordings

A celebrity from the age of 11, Elizabeth Taylor was practiced at public relations for almost all her life, so there aren’t many personal revelations in Elizabeth Taylor: The Lost Tapes. But Nanette Burstein‘s elegantly constructed documentary, mostly in Taylor’s own words backed by illuminating archival images, works as a lively bit of film history about movie stardom in the volatile 1960s as the studio system was fading and the media exploding.

The film — which premiered at Cannes in the Cannes Classics sidebar — is based on 40 hours of recently rediscovered audiotapes, recordings Taylor made in the mid-1960s for a ghost-written memoir (long out of print). It was the most frenzied moment of her fame, when she was coming off the paparazzi-fueled scandal that was Cleopatra. Taylor, who died in 2011, recalls her many marriages — four when she made these recordings, since she was on the first of two to Richard Burton — and her career, from her start as a child in Lassie Come Home (1943) through her Oscar-winning performance in Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? (1966).

Elizabeth Taylor: The Lost Tapes

The Bottom Line

An entertaining if unsurprising time capsule.

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Venue: Cannes Film Festival (Cannes Classics)
Cast: Elizabeth Taylor
Director: Nanette Burstein
Writers: Nanette Burstein, Tal Ben-David

1 hour 41 minutes

As she did in Hillary, about Hillary Clinton, and The Kid Stays in the Picture, based on Robert Evans’ autobiography, Burstein stays out of her celebrity subject’s way. Taylor’s voice is playful, almost girlish. Occasionally she is blunt, but more often seems cautiously aware of being recorded. Richard Meryman, the Life magazine reporter doing the interviews, is heard asking questions at times, but Taylor is firmly in control, at least on the surface.

Beneath that you can tell how beautifully Burstein and her editor and co-writer, Tal Ben-David, shaped the visuals. The archival photos and news clips offer a telling backdrop of images and sound bites, often more informative than what Taylor says — from shots of crowds filling the streets of London to see her on the day of her second wedding, to the actor Michael Wilding, to film of her in mourning black at the funeral of her beloved third husband, the producer Mike Todd, who died in a plane crash. The visual exceptions are the clichéd, recurring establishing shots of an old-fashioned reel-to-reel tape recorder, next to a martini glass.

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Moving chronologically, Taylor begins with her desire to act even as a child. Photos from that time offer a reminder that she was always astonishingly beautiful. These early sections are fine but bland. She was too young to be married the first time, to Nicky Hilton, she says, and the second marriage just didn’t work out. George Stevens gave her subtle direction and bolstered her confidence when she made A Place in the Sun (1951). When she made Giant with him five years later, he berated her, telling her she was just a movie star and not an actress, a charge that often dogged her.

Taylor becomes sporadically more biting as the film goes on, displaying a sharp-tongued wit and personality. That is particularly true when she talks about her marriage to Eddie Fisher, the first of her marital scandals, covered endlessly in tabloids. It was public knowledge that Fisher and his wife, Debbie Reynolds, were the Todds’ best friends. Shortly after Mike Todd’s death, Fisher left his wife, whose image was always cheery and wholesome, for Taylor. “I can’t say anything against Debbie,” Taylor sweetly says on the tape, and without taking a breath goes on, “But she put on such an act, with the pigtails and the diaper pins.” She says of Fisher, “I don’t remember too much about my marriage to him except it was one big frigging awful mistake.”

Burstein includes some enlightening sidelights from that period. A news clip of the recently married couple has them surrounded by journalists on the steps of a plane, with one reporter asking Fisher about his bride, “Can she cook?” Even as a tease, who would dare say that now?

That fuss was nothing next to Cleopatra (1963), now notorious as the film so over-budget it almost bankrupted 20th Century Fox, and the set on which Taylor and Burton, each married to other people, indiscreetly sparked to each other from the start. The Vatican newspaper weighed in on the affair, disapprovingly. Taylor says her own father called her “a whore.” In one of the film’s more telling scenes, she says of their affair, “Richard and I, we tried to be what is considered ‘good,’ but it didn’t work,” a comment that at once plays into the moralistic language of her day and resists it. These signs of Taylor’s savvy awareness of herself as a public personality are the film’s most intriguing, if scattershot, moments.

The film also shows how besieged the couple was by the paparazzi, at a turning point in celebrity culture. Occasionally other voices are heard in archival audio, and in this section George Hamilton says of the press, “They were not going for glamour anymore. They were going for the destruction of glamour,” suggesting a longing for the old pre-packaged studio publicity days. But Taylor herself is never heard complaining. A realist, she made hiding from the paparazzi into a game for her children so they wouldn’t be frightened.

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The recordings end at the point where she is assuring Meryman that she and Burton would be together for 50 years. The film then takes a quick trot through the rest of her days, including rehab at the Betty Ford Center and raising money for AIDS research. But the last word should have been Taylor’s. There is a private Elizabeth, she says. “The other Elizabeth, the famous one, really has no depth or meaning to me. It is a commodity that makes money.” The movie star Taylor is the one who most often comes through in the film, but that is engaging enough.

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Is Coppola’s $120M ‘Megalopolis’ ‘bafflingly shallow’ or ‘remarkably sincere’? Critics can’t tell

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Is Coppola’s $120M ‘Megalopolis’ ‘bafflingly shallow’ or ‘remarkably sincere’? Critics can’t tell
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Francis Ford Coppola’s 40-year passion project “Megalopolis” has finally arrived, but critics are divided on whether the science fiction epic was worth the wait.

The film, which premiered at Cannes Film Festival, has received mixed reviews from festivalgoers, with some calling the drama “staggeringly ambitious” and others dubbing the long-awaited movie “absolute madness.”

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Deadline and The Guardian report “Megalopolis” received a seven-minute standing ovation Thursday night. Coppola, 85, first conceived the film in the 1970s and development began in 1983. After several false starts and cancellations, the “Godfather” filmmaker revived the project in 2019 and used $120 million of his own money to fund it.

The ensemble cast includes Adam Driver, Giancarlo Esposito, Nathalie Emmanuel, Aubrey Plaza, Shia LaBeouf, Jon Voight, Jason Schwartzman, Laurence Fishburne, Kathryn Hunter and Dustin Hoffman.

The film follows an architect who “wants to rebuild New York City as a utopia following a devastating disaster,” according to IMDb. The movie is a “Roman Epic fable set in an imagined Modern America,” according to the film synopsis on the Cannes website.

Driver plays Cesar Catilina, a “genius artist who seeks to leap into a utopian, idealistic future,” but Mayor Franklyn Cicero, played by Esposito, “remains committed to a regressive status quo, perpetuating greed, special interests, and partisan warfare.” Emmanuel plays the mayor’s socialite daughter, Julia, “whose love for Cesar has divided her loyalties, forcing her to discover what she truly believes humanity deserves.”

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Francis Ford Coppola’s ‘Megalopolis’ trailer abuzz ahead of Cannes Film Festival debut

In the caption for the movie’s trailer on YouTube, Coppola said, “Our new film MEGALOPOLIS is the best work I’ve ever had the privilege to preside over.”

‘Megalopolis’ Rotten Tomatoes score matches critics’ split

Critics are split evenly down the middle on the star-studded film. On Rotten Tomatoes, 50% of 24 critics’ reviews were positive.

Cannes 2024 to feature Donald Trump drama, Francis Ford Coppola’s ‘Megalopolis’ and more

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Esther Zuckerman of The Daily Beast wrote that the film is a “laughingstock” and “stilted, earnest, over the top, CGI ridden, and utterly a mess.” The Guardian’s Peter Bradshaw wrote that the film was “megabloated and megaboring” and a “bafflingly shallow film, full of high-school-valedictorian verities about humanity’s future.”

Meanwhile, David Fear of Rolling Stone said the film is “uncompromising, uniquely intellectual, unabashedly romantic, broadly satirical yet remarkably sincere about wanting not just brave new worlds but better ones.” And Bilge Ebiri of Vulture said the movie “might be the craziest thing I’ve ever seen. And I’d be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy every single (expletive) second of it.”

Joshua Rothkopf of the Los Angeles Times called out fans and critics with expectations of the film being a “masterpiece,” saying there is “much to enjoy” from the “weird” and “juicy” film.

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Coppola has said his film “Apocalypse Now” suffered a similar fate, with polarizing criticisms upon its release at Cannes in 1979 before ascending to acclaim and becoming a New Hollywood classic.

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