“Voting? Yikes.”

Panos, I think I want to have your baby. 

How does this exist? Oh yeah, that’s right. Thank you, Guillermo! You mad, beautiful bastard! 

Without for even a fraction of a second being anything along the lines of what I expected or wanted the next thing after Mandy from Panos Cosmatos to be, this is 100 fucking percent the exact thing I needed from him and from the universe at this moment in my life. 

Killer drug vibes abound as one of the most unexpectedly perfectly assembled casts hits cruising altitude and leaves earth’s atmosphere in the irradiated dust. Panos is no shit maybe the only genuine article visionary in the fucking game today. Everything he does feels precisely as Eric Andre’s character puts it in this regarding inducing nostalgia for something that never happened. 

Making those of us who know what the fuck is up misty eyed remembering movies that never got made. Half-formed plot synopsis extrapolated from fraudulent VHS big box cover art. Automobiles don’t exist unless they’re A-team vans or sports cars where the headlights pop-up. Every movie idea sounds stupid compared to doing lines of coke with Peter Weller in a Kimono. An entire generation unable to stop smoking in the Obelisk Chamber. I miss chemically wreaking havoc on my central nervous system, getting on the same altered plane with a group of like minded individuals and seeing spectral trails from brake lights speeding down forgotten freeways. 

As with all of Cosmatos’s work, It’s not about the destination, it’s about the journey. 

We’re all waiting for tech gurus and eccentric billionaires to show us something special, something hierarchy changing and revolutionary. But they ain’t got nothing up their sleeves save for the same old death and destruction. Mutated monstrosities shambling out of spillways toward apocalyptic matte painting vistas of formerly recognizable cityscapes. It’s a story as old as time and the only one worth telling anymore. House on Haunted Hill meets Raiders of the Lost Ark meets Buckaroo Bonzai in Barry Nyle’s dream home. 

This is my shit.