In a remote village of Malisbong, a grieving widow finds solace in a mannequin she believes to be her deceased husband. As she delves deeper into this illusion, she's forced to confront the painful truth of the Malisbong Massacre.
I can say without question, that this is the first movie I’ve ever seen where art imitates life so much that I could 100% identify with it on a personal level. The predominately Black cast of characters are people with hopes, dreams, fears, and ambitions.
Ultra-violent storytelling has never been my thing, but the issues with Scarface go beyond that. The film perpetuates harmful stereotypes about Latinx immigrants and uses gore and misogyny for shock value that never serves any purpose. The whole venture is frustratingly empty, and left me desiring something more.
Slip on your favorite dungarees and spend the day on the east coast of New Zealand before the 90s.
Clearly, in the end, Allison raised a responsible child because she knew that her "friend" was doing something that made her uncomfortable and turned away from her. No worries, Super mom was already one step ahead of her.
What seems like such a simple story of survival is so much more than that—it’s a story of family, and of war, and of destruction. It’s painful to watch, but not in a bad way. It makes its audience reflect on their own actions, and in how they are complicit in the sufferings of others as the adults in this film are. Grave of the Fireflies does not hold back from being heartbreaking, and it shouldn’t. It tells a message that needs to be heard decades after the war, and a story that cannot be forgotten by history.
The human experience is described through the eyes of a marginalized outsider, neither judgmental nor invested, just an observant donkey.
