The Neon Demon | Nicolas Winding Refn | 2016

It’s like The Neon Demon grabbed a bouquet of lava lamp balloons, floated to peak neo-giallo stylization, but then (sadly) continued to float on into deep space and asphyxiation by atmospheric pressure. Strained Seriousness? More like Strobe-lit Strenuousness (a far cry from the PanthNEON (heh)). Nicolas Winding Refn is an egomaniacal dope, fellas, too much of a vacuous graph-paper conceptual artist to have anything to say about the showbiz vacuity that is the metaphorically bludgeoned subject of his film. It feels like he chipped off a shard or two of David Cronenberg’s vision for Maps to the Stars (a true masterpiece!) and just endlessly lacquered it in the fetishistic mediaphilic self-devouring aestheticism that is this dweeb’s specialty. It’s cinematic Pop Rocks, a gnarly sensory experience until the last crackle goes off and all that’s left is the taste of artificial sugary goop. No wonder wigwam loved this…


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