“We were somewhere around Barstow on the edge of the desert when the drugs began to take hold…”

And with those lines, so begins Terry Gilliam’s nightmarish and incomprehensible (and ultimately meaningless) orgy of hallucinatory, nightmare inducing imagery and meandering monologuing haze of a film that refuses to follow any semblance of normalcy or logic, instead existing in its own disturbing two hour drug induced haze of paranoia and madness.

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Denis Villeneuve's third English language feature is a pristinely directed film that simultaneously manages to be a tightly wound genre piece and a soberingly cynical and frank look at the brutal "War on Drugs".

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In what is possibly the most beautifully confusing cinematic experience I've had, Paul Thomas Anderson's most recent feature, and his seventh film, manages to to be an absurdest, stoned out trip down the sweaty, drug addled and sex crazed summer byways of 1970 Los Angeles, as we follow an equally absurdest and stoned out private detective as he is quickly dragged into an incomprehensible conspiracy involving hippies, Neo-Nazis allied Jewish land developers, cults, and Chinese heron dealers,

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