Exhuma
Jang Jae-hyun
4.5/5
Suspense, supernatural, mystery, Korean culture, history, geopolitics, WWII, horror
An intense and visceral movie about a team of afterlife specialists — two shamans, a geomancer (feng shui specialist) and a mortician — exhuming a cursed grave with a plot that goes all the way back to World War II, and addressing the legacy of wartime horrors wrecked onto the Korean peninsula and its people since.
This movie is extremely well-paced, without meandering dialogues or over-exposed emotions disturbing the unfolding mystery — from a generational curse in a wealthy Americanized Korean family to a vertically buried coffin, to a historical plot during the Japanese occupation, where the imperialist's shamans cursed the Korean land with a "nail" to break the country into two.
The horror in this movie comes not from jump scares, but from the cinematography of contrasted, atmospheric discomfort, as well as the capacity for evil found within human hearts — that it wasn't just the invading imperialists to blame, but also the traitors who aided them by betraying their own country and brethren.
And yet the awfulness from all that never quite persists, for the movie believes just as strongly in goodness and excising evil. The team cares genuinely for each other, and each possesses the nobility to do something greater than, and at the risk of their own lives. Through shoveling dirt, through pig and horse blood, through possession and hysteria, hope is also waiting to be unearthed.
This is a poignant and contemporary film with a very clear message from beginning all the way to the end.
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Preface to a dream, Alessandra Casini, 2023
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Black light Star Trek poster
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“Destiny” Sacred Geometry by Uusi, from Supra Oracle card deck
Moebius
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Our Wives Under The Sea
Julia Armstrong
Romance, horror, ocean, queer, lesbian, slow burn, mystery, suspense, sci-fi, grief
4.2/5
Miri’s grief is nothing new. It’s a presence she’s long become accustomed to by nature of her wife’s job — an intrepid submariner — as every time Leah leaves for an expedition, there’s always a hint of worry and anxiety and the discomfort of being left to wait.
Miri’s grief is nothing new. From the first day past the stated duration of Leah’s three-week long expedition, from the ensuing six months of MIA radio silence, to the next full year of her inexplicable, dubious and sickly return; grief is Miri’s only constant. She has thought Leah dead for a very long time.
It’s frustrating to see the two of them go about each other at times. Leah’s state of mind is fractured, her body unquestionably mutating; but Miri’s head is waterlogged with intense blooms and swells of emotions, from self-doubt to denial to normalization and hope. Life keeps going on, and so does Miri, doing her best to keep Leah going on. Her perspective is a pendulum bob swinging between now and back then, between a truth that repulses her and a past that still lives. Miri keeps going on, to a point that the reader finds utterly incomprehensible. One of Leah’s eyes pops like an underwater bubble; her skin turns into the translucent film of jellyfish; her mass reduces to that of plastic bags filled up with water. Miri doesn’t stop, and the audience goes along with her.
Until the point beyond that, which is that there is no explanation for Leah’s condition, that there is no motive to uncovered behind her sabotaged expedition, and that there is no way for her to get better. That is when the grief hits you.
The heartbreak doesn’t just happen; it’s been happening. It seems gentle and inevitable, like holding your arms out at sea and letting the waves embrace you. Leah has gone into the water. We have always known this.
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Bernie Wrightson’s Frankenstein
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William Hartmann’s “Moon Dust Illuminated by the Sun”
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From a 1979 issue of Future Life
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