"Just as lepidopterists use chloroform to capture the form of a flitting creature, wings open as if in flight, so cinema captured its images on celluloid via the administration of chemicals which, if inhaled too deeply, could send one off into the rapturous sleep of dreams. And unlike so many of his contemporaries who had already succumbed to the sterile precision of digital information, Spielberg at 60 still clung to that heady whiff of celluloid, greedily inhaling the scent of vagrant history which wafted in its wake like the trailing embers of an opium pipe. ‘An editing room with film,’ he told me with nostril-filling relish, ‘smells like … well, it’s the same smell that King Vidor smelled, and D.W. Griffith smelled, and Cecil B DeMille smelled, and John Ford smelled. It’s the same smell that Kurosawa smells, and Truffaut smells and Antonioni smells. It is the smell of our medium.’"
— Mark Kermode, The Good, The Bad and the Multiplex
"It would be easy to use ‘The Lake House’ as a touchstone text that proves just how thick-headed Hollywood remakes of foreign language films tend to be. But the problems of translation are far more complex than Western filmmakers simply doing a bad job of adapting Eastern texts (…) There are underlying issues of cultural, linguistic and locational specificity which mean that no film can be lifted from the context of its creation and relocated to a foreign shore without fundamentally changing the original text (…)
Or, to put it more simply, no matter how tactfully, artfully or respectfully an English-language filmmaker approaches the issue of translating a Japanese language film, a Japanese movie can only work in Japanese."
— Mark Kermode speaking the truth
"All in all, it adds up to a vile and pernicious slice of imperialist propaganda which celebrates misogyny, belittles non-Americans, insults audiences, and wallows in greed, avarice and bulimic vomit. At great length."
— Mark Kermode on ‘Sex and the City 2’
"I saw the days of the year stretching ahead like a series of bright, white boxes, and separating one box from another was sleep, like a black shade. Only for me, the long perspective of shades that set off one box from the next had suddenly snapped up, and I could see day after day glaring ahead of me like a white, broad, infinitely desolate avenue.
It seemed silly to wash when I would only have to wash again the next.
It made me tired just to think of it.
I wanted to do everything once and for all and be through with it."
— Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar