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From Goya’s dining room via Apocalypse Now
Jo Evans

: 51; Evans 2009 ). The work of this ‘cinéaste of subjectivity’ (Smith, 1999 : 11) has continued to divide critics, and the discussion that follows uses Goya’s paintings, Saturn and Leocadia, and Coppola’s Apocalypse Now (1979/2001) to re-examine two of the more confusing aspects of this film: the self-reflexive cinematography that is epitomised by the zoom through the cow’s eye, and the reappearance of the same male

in Spanish cinema 1973–2010
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Catherine Constable

.2 The final essay picks up on these arguments to offer a moment in which Baudrillard styles himself as a prophet of the postmodern apocalypse. I am a nihilist. I observe, I accept, I assume the immense process of the destruction of appearances … The true revolution of the nineteenth century, of modernity, is the radical destruction of appearances … I observe, I accept, I assume, I analyse the second revolution … that of postmodernity, which is the immense process of the destruction of meaning, equal to the earlier destruction of appearances.3 Tracing the

in Adapting philosophy
Comedy, subcultures, television
Peter Buse, Núria Triana Toribio and Andy Willis

(Spanish Cinema in 119 Films, 1997) and in the Antología crítica del cine español (see Zumalde Arregui 1997, 958–60). In Spain, then, El día de la bestia was both a commercial and critical success. The film was also widely distributed outside Spain where it has become a firm favourite of both art-house cinema-goers and cult movie fans. The plot of El día de la bestia concerns a Basque Catholic priest, Father Ángel Berriartúa (Álex Angulo), who in his research role at the University of Deusto has discovered that the predictions of the apocalypse by St John have been

in The cinema of Álex de la Iglesia
Horror cinema, historical trauma and national identity
Author: Linnie Blake

This book explores the ways in which the unashamedly disturbing conventions of international horror cinema allow audiences to engage with the traumatic legacy of the recent past in a manner that has serious implications for the ways in which we conceive of ourselves both as gendered individuals and as members of a particular nation-state. Exploring a wide range of stylistically distinctive and generically diverse film texts, its analysis ranges from the body horror of the American 1970s to the avant-garde proclivities of German Reunification horror, from the vengeful supernaturalism of recent Japanese chillers and their American remakes to the post-Thatcherite masculinity horror of the UK and the resurgence of hillbilly horror in the period following 9/11 USA. In each case, it is argued that horror cinema forces us to look again at the wounds inflicted on individuals, families, communities and nations by traumatic events such as genocide and war, terrorist outrage and seismic political change, wounds that are all too often concealed beneath ideologically expedient discourses of national cohesion. Thus proffering a radical critique of the nation-state and the ideologies of identity it promulgates, horror cinema is seen to offer us a disturbing, yet perversely life affirming, means of working through the traumatic legacy of recent times.

Auteurism, politics, landscape and memory

This book is a collection of essays that offers a new lens through which to examine Spain's cinematic production following the decades of isolation imposed by the Franco regime. The films analysed span a period of some 40 years that have been crucial in the development of Spain, Spanish democracy and Spanish cinema. The book offers a new lens to examine Spain's cinematic production following the decades of isolation imposed by the Franco regime. The figure of the auteur jostles for attention alongside other features of film, ranging from genre, intertexuality and ethics, to filmic language and aesthetics. At the heart of this project lies an examination of the ways in which established auteurs and younger generations of filmmakers have harnessed cinematic language towards a commentary on the nation-state and the politics of historical and cultural memory. The films discussed in the book encompass different genres, both popular and more select arthouse fare, and are made in different languages: English, Basque, Castilian, Catalan, and French. Regarded universally as a classic of Spanish arthouse cinema, El espíritu de la colmena/The Spirit of the Beehive has attracted a wealth of critical attention which has focused on political, historical, psychological and formal aspects of Víctor Erice's co-authored film-text. Luis Bunuel's Cet obscur objet du désir/That Obscure Object of Desire, Catalan filmmaker Ventura Pons' Ocana. Retrat Intermitent/Ocana. An Intermittent Portrait, Francisco Franco's El Dorado, Víctor Erice's El sol del membrillo/The Quince Tree Sun, and Julio Medem's Vacas/Cows are some films that are discussed.

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Linnie Blake

acknowledged, for the first time since the Great Depression, the nation’s ongoing inability to realise the dreams of its anti-materialist, spiritually-driven early settlers. At the hands of the authoritarian militarism of successive governments and the rapacious self-seeking consumer fetishism of individuals, the nation for Romero had broken its foundational covenant with God; condemning itself to the crass materialism and paranoid jingoism so powerfully encapsulated in the zombie apocalypse. But as I will illustrate in Chapter 5, zombie horror was not the only subgenre

in The wounds of nations
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Horror cinema and traumatic events
Linnie Blake

gender. Hence, in both its American and Japanese manifestations, the onryou retains a powerful ability to warn against the dominant ideology’s coercive normalisation of statesponsored or culturally sanctioned acts of violence. Similarly the Conclusion 189 zombie apocalypse, mobilised initially by Romero as a terrifying means of exploring the legacy of the Nixon years still retains a potent socially critical function when satirically remobilised as a means of illustrating the Thatcherite emasculation and infantilisation of British men. That said, it does seem to be

in The wounds of nations
Clarice Greco, Mariana Marques de Lima and Tissiana Nogueira Pereira

Jesus received recognition at the FYMTI – Festival y Mercado de TV – Ficción Internacional in the category of Best Production in 2012 and 2014, respectively. Due to their good results, the strategy was confirmed and the channel broadcast, in 2015, its first biblical telenovela, The Ten Commandments . This production was their greatest success and thus served as an impetus for the channel to invest in other telenovelas, The Promised Land ( 2016–17 ), O Rico e Lázaro [The Rich Man and Lazarus] ( 2017 ), Apocalypse ( 2017–18 ), with the next one, Jesus ( 2018

in The Bible onscreen in the new millennium
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Linnie Blake

right what was always right, and somehow never was right.’11 Naturally, Reagan’s reactionary political programme, underscored by denial and the will to apocalypse, would come to be reflected in cinematic production: in films such as Rambo: First Blood 76 The traumatised 1970s Part Two (1985) and in an entire slew of movies like Robert Zemekis’s Back to the Future (1985) which were nostalgically set in the picketfenced suburbia of Eisenhower’s 1950s – long before the events of Vietnam and Watergate, economic collapse and civil insurrection had repeatedly wounded the

in The wounds of nations
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Paul Newland

(Donald Sinden), occupying the same spaces as gangsters, and Inspector Matthews (Nigel Davenport) exclaiming at one point ‘You can buy yourself out of anything with money in this bloody country.’ The two world wars haunt many British films of the period, suggesting that a deep, unshakeable vision of a traumatic but also glorious past informs aspects of a troubled British present. And a number of films deal with a looming apocalypse; or, at the very least, develop fears around a sense of an ending. Examples here include Zardoz ( John Boorman, 1974), a science

in British films of the 1970s