Raw is one of those films that engenders visceral reactions in its viewers.  Its showings have apparently resulted in the paramedics being called in after audience members have fainted.  Even the trailer dares the viewer to look away.  As the latest entry into the company of the French Extremity genre, along with gorefests like Martyrs and Gaspar Noe's nightmare landscapes, Raw deserves its grotesque reputation,  but it is not solely going for cheap thrills.  Julia Ducournau's intense but heady film is a feast for the eyes, as oddly beautiful and entrancing as a story about a sheltered veterinary student's cannibalistic awakening could possibly be.  Ducournau throws down a challenge to stomach her work and an invitation to experience it.  Both are worth accepting.

​When it comes to movies, I don’t have the sharp memories of childhood that most people do.  An emphasis wasn’t placed on culture in my childhood and a lot of my adolescence was spent in a cold emotional shell, so I just didn’t get those kinds of revelatory cinematic experiences until I was 17 or 18.  That being said, the network TV edit of The Silence of the Lambs was one of the first R-rated movies I saw, recorded late at night on a VCR.  The sequel, Hannibal, was the first DVD I ever bought, and I do remember gleefully watching that on Christmas Eve 2001, to my mother’s great disappointment.  The character of Hannibal Lecter and the world that Thomas Harris (author of the books) created around him has always fascinated me, and we’ve been fortunate enough to receive takes on the subject matter from directors as varied in their tastes as Michael Mann and Vincenzo Natali and in their talent levels as Ridley Scott and Brett Ratner (Ratner’s the shitty one).  Jonathan Demme’s version in Silence of the Lambs is certainly the most iconic, dominating the Oscars and placing Anthony Hopkins’ Lecter continuously at the top of any Best Villain list.  We just discussed another Best Picture winner in Dances With Wolves, and determined that it’s still an entertaining, if imperfect, film.  Will Silence of the Lambs get a more generous sort of praise?  Jon, aged 17, certainly would say so, but that kid was an idiot.

​M. Night Shyamalan gets officially welcomed back into Hollywood with the massive success of Split.  When a person gets the power to do anything, as Shyamalan did for several years, it’s easy to imagine how quickly things can go off the rails, like when the adaptation of a beautiful animated show is rendered unwatchable or when Mark Wahlberg is forced to ask where all the bees went.  Working with tight-fisted Blumhouse Studios and their fairly brilliant economic model is a good career move for  Shyamalan.  They dump all these low-budget horror films on the market, and while they’re critical success is low, there’s enough of a gorehound audience to recoup the small investment.  Half of the receipts from Split could fund ten to fifteen new Blumhouse films, and suddenly Shyamalan’s minting money.  But is it any good?  Split has equal amounts of what the director’s always been good at, as well as some new crutches that are expected from the genre, but no less ugly through his lens.