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How Science is Shaping Online Casino Recommendations

Online casinos became a popular form of entertainment during the coronavirus pandemic. With land-based casinos closed gamers entertained themselves via free mobile apps.

The availability of desktop and mobile browser versions at top online casinos also grew. Players can access various games, including blackjack, craps, roulette, and baccarat.

Live dealers became a top trend in the gaming industry. New online casinos also came into existence with a wide selection of slots, bingo, and other games.

Players at offshore gambling sites may make deposits and withdrawals in crypto.

Here’s a look at how science is shaping online casino recommendations.

Big Data Analytics in the Online Casino Industry

Online casinos use data analytics to enhance user experience. Delivering innovative platforms and reliable customer service helps to ensure players stay loyal.

Traditional land-based casinos use rewards programs that offer points to repeat customers. In the online casino industry, gambling companies use special promotions to attract new clients.

Big data helps to track the progress of promos and special offers. High participation rates show companies that certain offers work better than others.

It’s also essential for companies to cater to player preferences by monitoring their gambling habits.

 

Creating Player Profiles

One example of big data used in the gambling industry is the rise of legal sports betting in the U.S. Gambling companies, and software developers merged with sports leagues to track statistics.

Live broadcasts showcase various stats in real-time to enhance engagement. Gamblers who participate in fantasy sports might pay closer attention to games to get the latest updates on their favorite players.

When fans pull up their fantasy team each week, they get individualized player profiles for yards, receptions, scores, and more. Gambling companies use that same concept to study their players.

Players who prefer online slots might get special slot promotions delivered to the email registered with their account. Users who spend the most time playing poker on an online casino platform may get updates about the daily or weekly poker tournaments.

An online casino might also reach out to players who’ve gone inactive with a special offer.

To entice players to spend more time gambling is the point of creating player profiles. Online casinos may also study player behavior to adapt their platforms to deliver the best user experience.

Casino Reviews and Algorithms

Some online casinos allow players to leave reviews about specific games. Gambling platforms that permit reviews of casino games may also allow players to organize games by those ratings.

Mobile apps for online casinos also let players leave reviews. Players can then judge for themselves which options might be worthwhile.

When looking for a reputable option, casino reviews online help users find a suitable platform.

Reviews and algorithms contribute to giving players exactly what they’re looking for regarding online casinos.

The best platforms offer sections and categories called “Recommendations” based on previous choices.

Players who spend more time at an online casino may find that algorithms recommend games that might’ve slipped under the radar.

Online casinos paying for new titles on their platforms get the most out of their selection by utilizing algorithms based on players’ interests and preferences.

Random Number Generators (RNGs) in Casino Games

Slot machines at casinos use random number generators (RNGs) to deliver specific outcomes and results. Software developers build RNGs into games by programming them to offer low, medium, and high volatility.

Third-party companies test RNGs over millions of rounds or spins to garner return-to-player (RTP) percentages. Studying RNGs in various games helps players choose suitable titles for their bankroll.

Other casino games also offer theoretical RTPs based on strategies and human error. For example, blackjack provides players an average RTP of 99% or above. That means, for every $100 wagered—players might win back $99.

Slots usually offer RTP somewhere between 94% – 96%. Volatility represents how often games pay.

A slot with high volatility pays out in more significant increments spread further apart, whereas a low volatility slot pays out more often in small amounts.

Online casinos might offer information on every game to show players the volatility and RTP.

Smart players will choose games with higher volatility for better chances at a big win—or maybe even a jackpot!

Using Data to Personalize Online Gambling Experiences

Players who continually choose highly volatile games will get recommendations based on their habits. That’s an excellent way to find new games suited to player preferences.

Gambling companies might also use data to target ads to specific players. If they don’t get recommendations on screen, they may see ads catering to their gameplay. Those ads could come from emails, promos, offers, bonuses, etc.

Personalizing user experiences via data is a significant way science shapes online casino recommendations.

Online casinos use player data to help develop marketing campaigns, as well. Software companies study the data of player habits when creating new titles.

Gambling companies might use data analytics to monitor their competition. Predictive analytics from previous expectations and preferences also helps to attract new customers.

Honing in on the demographics of players by monitoring their preferences, habits, likes, and dislikes offers opportunities for online casinos to innovate.

The Future of Online Casinos

Top technological advancements in the online casino industry include virtual and augmented reality, artificial intelligence, chatbots, live dealers, and crypto.

Research and marketing companies routinely forecast robust growth for the worldwide online gambling industry. The science behind online casino recommendations may only be in its infancy.

Soon, players at online casinos might get recommendations delivered to a VR headset. They could likewise receive a notification that a friend has just entered a craps game or a blackjack table.

Would you like to join?

Debby Friday Wins 2023 Polaris Music Prize

Debby Friday has won this year’s Polaris Music Prize, which is awarded annually to the best Canadian album of the year. The Toronto artist’s debut album GOOD LUCK, which came out in March via Sub Pop, beat out a shortlist that included Alvvays’ Blue Rev, Aysanabee’s Watin, Begonia’s Powder Blue, Dan Mangan’s Being Somewhere, Daniel Caesar’s Never Enough, Feist’s Multitudes, Gayance’s Mascarade, Snotty Nose Rez Kids’ I’m Good, HBU?, and the Sadies’ Colder Streams. “It just feels like a miracle,” Friday said while accepting the award at Toronto’s Massey Hall. The award carries a cash prize of $50,000.

Last year’s Polaris Music Prize winner was Pierre Kwenders for his album José Louis And The Paradox of Love.

Check out our Artist Spotlight interview with Debby Friday.

From Page to Screen: Exploring Popular Adaptations of Classic Literature

The silver screen has a rich history of turning classic books into classic films. The stories behind some of the biggest blockbusters and most worthy Academy Award winners have been taken from the pages of literature which is sometimes centuries old.

The progression of literary adaptations is fascinating, and it features repeating patterns, reflections of the zeitgeist, culture-related trends and, of course, profitable sequels. 

The Dawn of the Golden Age: 1900s to 1940s

Some of the earliest book-to-film adaptations included a swathe of dark films based on the works of such acclaimed authors such as Charles Dickens, Robert Louis Stevenson, and Bram Stoker. 

In 1908 the film Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde was released, and it’s now considered by many to be the very first American horror film. Its success ushered in a number of other dark stories, and these included Nosferatu (1922), which is based on Stoker’s Dracula and acclaimed as one of the most important films of the silent era. 

In 1931, Frankenstein took the world by storm, generating huge profits and terrifying equally huge numbers of cinema-goers. Frankenstein, based on Mary Shelley’s 1818 novel, made use of groundbreaking special effects and filmmaking techniques, and was one of the first of its kind to spawn a sequel, 1935’s Bride of Frankenstein.

Outside of the murky world of horror, adaptations of literary works were also popular. These lent themselves especially well to historical films and ‘costume dramas’. These period films were first popularised by the 1910 iteration of Jane Eyre, the Charlotte Brontë novel. 

After adapting a Noël Coward play into Brief Encounter (1945) and winning the Palme d’Or, David Lean’s masterpiece adaptations of Dickens’ Great Expectations (1946) and Oliver Twist (1948) cemented him as being one of the finest film directors in the world. 

These two films also continued an enduring trend of adapting the works of Dickens into critically and financially successful pieces, which were undeniably pieces of art in themselves.

By the end of the 1940s, the market for films adapted from books had proven itself to be immense. The question was, ‘what would be next?’

The End of the Golden Age: 1950s to 1969

In the ‘50s, as Hollywood began to dominate the global film industry, adaptations of novels continued to do great business. These included Alfred Hitchcock’s 1951 version of Strangers on a Train, the Humphrey Bogart and Katherine Hepburn vehicle The African Queen (1951), the Maralyn Monroe smash hit Gentlemen Prefer Blondes (1953), and Lean’s epic war story The Bridge on the River Kwai (1957).

Many of these films exemplify filmmaking in the 1950s, and people’s love of grand historical epics, tense psychological suspense stories and romantic historical tales continues to this day, with classical novels providing a seemingly endless well of inspiration for filmmakers to draw on.

The 1960s also produced some great classic adaptations, such as To Kill a Mockingbird (1962), Doctor Zhivago (1965), and Stanley Kubrick’s revolutionary 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968). 

In the later 1960s, some filmmakers attempted to capture the status quo, with the world experiencing a cultural shift, striving to push societal boundaries and shatter taboos. Examples of these provocative and controversial works include The Graduate (1967) and Rosemary’s Baby (1968).

A New Generation: 1970s 

With the end of what later became known as the Golden Age of Hollywood, the ‘70s arrived, and for fans of literary adaptations, it was no less exciting. 

Kubrick’s version of A Clockwork Orange (1971) painted the image of a disturbing dystopia and caused widespread controversy. The Godfather (1972) took home huge numbers of awards and was a gigantic financial success, enabling Coppola to later adapt Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness into his take on a Vietnam war epic, Apocalypse Now (1979). 

William Freidkin’s adaptation of The Exorcist (1973) proved that horror could be classy, receiving several Oscar nominations and creating societal uproar for its depictions of violence and religious symbolism. In 1975, Steven Spielberg came into the public eye with Jaws, which continues to be monumentally influential to this day, and which virtually created blockbusters as we know them. 

Modern Adaptations

Drawing from books both old and new continues to be a popular method for finding material, particularly in Hollywood. It seemed that, with the turn of the century, a new genre ruled: fantasy.

In the early 2000s, the Harry Potter films (2001-2010) filled multiplexes all over the world, bringing huge numbers of cinema fans as well as hordes of fans of the J. K. Rowling book series.

Similarly, alongside the success of the Potter films, Peter Jackson’s trilogy based on Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings (2001-2003) was released, garnering huge success at both the box office and the Oscars.

Other novels which have received the adaptation treatment in recent times include David Fincher’s tense psychological thriller Gone Girl (2014) and Baz Luhrman’s extravagant take on The Great Gatsby (2013).

Greta Gerwig’s all-star seventh adaptation of Little Women (2019) showed that there’s plenty of life in the older books yet, and in 2021 Dennis Villneuve managed to score a monster-sized win with his version of Frank Herbert’s Dune, a book which had been adapted, albeit unsuccessfully, by David Lynch in the 1980s.

Miniseries

With the recent rise of TV and streaming platforms, many books have been successfully adapted into miniseries, some of which had been films in the past but were now receiving a new lease of life on the smaller screen.

Many stories benefit from the slower pacing in this format, allowing the writers and directors to more deeply explore the psyches of the characters, and to incorporate more of the original subplots.

Both Austen and Dickens have been revived for the small screen, and some newer novels such as The Handmaid’s Tale and Game of Thrones have spawned cultural phenomena. 

Room for Interpretation

The process of making a film is a collaborative one, requiring input from directors, screenwriters, actors and producers. For this reason, it’s easy to see how some films can accidentally stray from their source material, and why some filmmakers elect to deliberately make substantial changes.

Further complicating things, no book can be directly translated into film; the latter is a visual medium, and the text must be reinterpreted in such a way that the story can be told through images, with or without retaining the original meaning of the work. Constraints such as time limitations can cause difficulties, as can the number of locations and characters.

This discrepancy between novel and film is often the source of much debate and controversy, and the question is often asked, particularly by fans of the originals, ‘how many liberties is it acceptable to take?’

It could be argued that, if enough changes are made then it is no longer an adaptation, but on the other hand it’s essential that some changes be made for most novels to work well on screen. 

Striking this balance is a monumentally tricky task for filmmakers, and it seems reasonable that the acceptable amount of liberties taken should depend on many factors, including the filmmaker, the novel, the new medium, and the nature of the story itself.

Evoking an Era: Period Cinema Techniques

Creating a plausible representation of a historical period is no easy feat, and it involves the utilisation of a wide range of skills, methods, and cinematic techniques.

To reflect emotions and create a believable setting, lighting can be used, as in Barry Lyndon (1975), for which Kubrick used specially made lenses and thousands upon thousands of candles to create an image reminiscent of a romantic-era painting.

Other such elements of the filmmaking process which can be used to create a believable (or unbelievable) historical setting include sound effects, camera movements, scene transitions, music, colours, and symbolism. When combined and thoughtfully applied, these factors can create a unique and powerful effect.

These techniques are also present in TV, video games, and online slot games, many of which feature themes based on successful films, and even borrow from their style, such as the Game of Thrones, Friends, The X Files, Family Guy, Jurassic Park, Terminator 2, Grease, Rocky, Ted and Gladiator slots which can be found online. 

Fans of the related films and those who are interested in trying these games out should consider using bonus money to mitigate against financial risk. Look for low wagering casino bonuses, as these will allow you to sample plenty of slot games and to keep all of your winnings, rather than having to meet wagering requirements first.

What the Future Holds

It seems that classical literature will always be the subject of adaptations, even if the resulting films seem to move further and further away from the original novels in some cases. 

Whatever occurs in the entertainment industry, we can be certain that the future will bring more adaptations of our favourite books, as well as of new ones, in an attempt to update older stories for younger audiences.

For instance, the latest version of Nosferatu, to be directed by Robert Eggers, is due for release in 2024… and we can’t wait.

Frost Children Announce New Album ‘Hearth Room’, Share New Single

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Frost Children – the project of New York-based, Missouri-raised siblings Angel and Lulu Prost – have announced a new LP called Hearth Room. It’s a companion LP to April’s SPEED RUN, and it comes out November 17 via True Panther. The duo recorded the collection this spring in a cabin in Pennsylvania’s Poconos Mountains. Check out the lead single ‘Lethal’ below.

Crumb and Melody’s Echo Chamber Collaborate on New Single ‘Le Temple Volant’

Crumb and Melody’s Echo Chamber have teamed up for a new single titled ‘Le Temple Volant’. The collaborative track arrives with home video-style video directed by Phil McGill. Watch and listen below.

“I remember the first time I heard Crumb’s music, it was the song ‘Locket’ that blew my mind,” Melody Prochet said in a statement. “I think it kind of enlightened that spark in me that loves music so passionately, and made me reach out to them. The love was mutual and once that door was opened, we had to create something together, it’s been a nice flow of ideas back and forth.”

“[Melody’s] music feels deeply nostalgic and so intertwined with that tender period of first starting the band,” Crumb shared. “When she reached out to us during lockdown expressing her love for our music, it was a surreal and full circle moment. It feels right for this to be our first song with another musical artist… We came together for the first time to film part of the video, which was filmed on Roosevelt Island, with additional filming in New Zealand and Australia.”

‘Le Temple Volant’ follows Crumb’s 2023 singles ‘Dust Bunny’ and ‘Crushxd’. Their latest LP, Ice Melt, arrived in 2021. Melody’s Echo Chamber released her most recent album, Emotional Eternal, last year.

bar italia Announce New Album ‘The Twits’, Share New Single ‘my little tony’

bar italia – the London-based trio of Nina Cristante, Jezmi Tarik Fehmi, and Sam Fenton – have announced their second LP of 2023, The Twits. The follow-up to May’s Tracey Denim, the band’s Matador debut, arrives November 3. Listen to the lead single ‘my little tony’ below, and scroll down for the album cover and tracklist.

bar italia recorded The Twits over eight weeks from February 2023 in a makeshift home studio in Mallorca. It was mixed by Marta Salogni, who also worked on Tracey Denim.

The Twits Cover Artwork:

The Twits Tracklist:

1. my little tony
2. Real house wibes (desperate house vibes)
3. twist
4. worlds greatest emoter
5. calm down with me
6. Shoo
7. que suprise
8. Hi fiver
9. Brush w Faith
10. glory hunter
11. sounds like you had to be there
12. Jelsy
13. bibs

TIFF 2023 Highlights

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Aggro Dr1ft (Harmony Korine)

Cinema’s most (in)famously boyish cult filmmaker has a midlife crisis. For the latest instalment in a lifelong series of aesthetic reinventions, Harmony Korine returns with Aggro Dr1ft. Shot entirely with an infrared camera, the movie’s a hallucinogenic, deconstructed action film about the final mission of “the world’s greatest assassin” across a dystopian Miami. A barebones narrative stitches together lengthy sequences where characters move with the jank of a glitched-out video game. All dialogue—elliptical, clunky, stilted—mimics the writing and cadence of a Neil Breen movie. It’s Hype Williams’ Belly as a half-remembered dream or a psychedelic PS2 session, take your pick. Korine’s been vocal proclaiming his work revolutionary. In numerous press interviews, he dons a plastic minotaur mask and situates Aggro Dr1ft as an exercise in uncovering the next stage of cinema. Lots of outraged contesters were quick to renounce his bold declarations. At times like this, it’s important to recall how Korine also used to urinate on strangers to provoke them into beating him up on camera. I wouldn’t bother getting riled up refuting his logic.

Despite its eccentricity, Aggro Dr1ft goes down easy. It’s fun and surprisingly mellow (despite the hyper-saturation and occasional ear-piercing falcon screech). While the aesthetic conceit isn’t as complex or radical as Korine suggests, the thermal images summon an uncanny vision of a surreal landscape. The movie’s incredibly juvenile, but that cuts two ways. On one hand, it’s like the crass byproduct of a half-formed brain, conjuring a parodic Grand Theft Auto-type universe where all women are NPC callipygian twerkers. (This isn’t your parents’ Rehearsals for Retirement.) But Aggro Dr1ft also has the self-assuredness of youthful art. There’s no sense of obligation to pacify the conventions of its medium. It indulges a headstrong self-commitment to a very personal aesthetic language.

Korine’s long masqueraded as a Dumb Guy, exaggerating a stoned-clueless persona and downplaying the rigour of his artistry. In conversation with Caveh Zahedi, he responds to all of Zahedi’s references to prototypical maverick poet Arthur Rimbaud with answers about prototypical action hero John Rambo. For Korine, the ideal artist eradicates their own intellect and operates on a purely sensory level. It’s about returning to an instinct of unassuming creativity that’s conditioned out of us. I don’t think it’s possible to make a purely unintellectual film, especially not when you approach it with Harmony Korine’s ironic deliberateness. But at a glance, Aggro Dr1ft defies the intellect. The film’s designed exclusively around “pleasure”, whatever that amorphous term embodies. It’s a sensual experience which, in the Sontagian sense, rejects interpretation. Pleasures takes precedent.

Yet Aggro Dr1ft doesn’t cultivate a passive or escapist pleasure. Its pleasure stems from recognizing its disunity, its disregard for filmic convention, its narrative awkwardness, its disinterest in anything human, cohesive, or easily digestible. Korine asks us to find enjoyment in the demolition of standardized film and narrative language. Adorno and Horkheimer described The Culture Industry as a diversion: a means to deplete workers’ free time and energy, to distract them from their material reality via seamless escapism. Pleasure: weaponized. For no moment is Aggro Dr1ft passive viewing. You can’t freefall into images; they announce their presence loudly. Instead, the film strives for a radical form of pleasure built not on immersion, but confrontation.

 

The Beast (Bertrand Bonello)

Bertrand’s Bonello’s The Beast is a melodrama set at the end of human feeling. Told with vague sci-fi mechanics, the film unveils a technofascist AI-run future. The world is depopulated and barren. Architecture and interior design are minimalist and sterile. It’s a Mark Fisher incarnation of the year 2044, where nightclubs blast throwback hits from 1972. Exhausted by this world without affect, Gabrielle (Léa Seydoux) undergoes an operation to purge her emotions via submerging her body in a black liquid goo that broadcasts memories from her past lives. Intercutting stories from three of her lives (2044, 2014, and 1910), Bonello reconfigures narrative as a sprawling tapestry uncontained by a single lifespan. Desires persist into next lives, culminating in a vast, history-spanning arc.

The story drastically reinterprets and expands Henry James’ novella The Beast in the Jungle: a simple tragedy about a man’s fatalistic apprehension of a vague, impending calamity. Bonello’s adaptation jumps pastiches at lighting speed. It turns from costume drama romance into disaster movie into surrealist L.A. stalker thriller into dystopian sci-fi. Though eclectic and proudly disunified, Bonello patterns each milieu with ominous recurring motifs (e.g. dolls, pigeons, fortune tellers). This is his most audacious and esoteric movie yet, and that’s without factoring in the interpolations of Harmony Korine’s Trash Humpers. Like James’ story, the movie ends with a crushing irony: a tragedy where the greatest conceivable loss is the ability to feel. Bonello’s a filmmaker keen on dissecting history and its relationship to the present. The Beast, however, turns its sight on a precarious future. At times, the style is grotesquely melodramatic. Yet Bonello’s wielding of melodrama is a natural recourse: a defense against an evolving technological sphere pushing human feeling into obsolesce.

La Chimera (Alice Rohrwacher)

La Chimera is a few things: a sun-drenched romp, a tomb-raiding adventure, and a hauntological drama. Set in 1980s Tuscany, the film follows Arthur (Josh O’Connor), a perpetually dishevelled Englishman: equals parts charismatic and curmudgeonly. Released from prison, he reunites with his motley crew of fun-loving grave-robbers raiding Etruscan tombs. He leads the pack with a supernatural ability to spot the locations of tombs buried beneath the soil. For his frivolous gang of thieves, tomb-raiding is about the exhilaration and the spoils. But Arthur has more complex motives; he’s an Orphean figure searching for a legendary gateway to the underworld to find his lost lover, Beniamina.

When he returns from prison, Arthur stays with his lover’s grandmother (Isabella Rossellini), who lives like an Italian Miss Havisham in an anachronistic and antique-laden decaying villa. Rohrwacher’s 1980s Italy is rife with modernization. Yet simultaneously, the past and its relics are the most invaluable commodities. Rohrwacher traces the illicit pathways of the artifact market, where plundered treasures become respectable property on exhibit at the world’s most prestigious galleries. Arthur cannot imagine a future, cannot build new relationships. He’s stuck in a timeloop, in love with a missing woman. In La Chimera, all systems (financial, aesthetic, emotional) are dictated by ghosts of the past, whose hauntings persist even in times of ostensible progress.

The crux of the film is Rohrwacher and O’Connor’s pairing as filmmaker and actor. Rohrwacher’s conception of Arthur is so vivid, the perfect cocktail of suaveness and assholery. O’Connor’s rendition is lived-in, larger-than-life at times, yet also infused with the pathos of lovesick longing. At points, he moves like a reincarnation of Jean-Paul Belmondo: similar faces, erratic physicalities, charismatic gruffness. The accumulated dirt on his ivory suit delivers a better performance than most human actors will this year. It’s a gradual performance, hinging on the revelation that he’s a man prepared to plunge into the deepest depths of the earth to uncover a lost love.

Do Not Expect Much from the End of the World (Radu Jude)

Radu Jude’s Do Not Expect Much from the End of the World is a big Brechtian farce told in literary allusions, rapid-fire vulgarities, and indignation at a labour system that exploits and disregards its workers. Jude’s form is elastic, associative, freewheeling. The film follows Angela (Ilihenca Manolache) as she interviews injured labourers for a role in a workplace safety video. As a side hustle, she records selfie videos as Bobita, her chauvinistic alter ego masked in an Andrew Tate faceswap filter. Her story is regularly interrupted by excerpts from Lucian Bratu’s Angela Keeps Going (1982) and other digressions, including a lengthy and unexpectedly moving montage of memorials for Romanian roadside causalities. It’s a rare moment of sensitivity amongst Jude’s sardonic dispatch from the frontlines of a nonchalant apocalypse.

Do Not Expect Much is very funny. Its humour is both broad and obscure; an extended gag involves Uwe Boll’s boxing match against his critics. Yet it’s a misstep to isolate a core element in Jude’s latest hodgepodge, to centre its irreverence or its sadness. Do Not Expect Much is gleefully disjointed. Jude envisions corporatism as a cannibalizing force which uses the respectability of cinema and “high-art” as a smoke screen for its violence. By flaunting its own aesthetic contradictions, Jude offers a work that —despite its arsenal of ironies—feels like it has nothing to hide.

Evil Does Not Exist (Ryusuke Hamaguchi)

Ryusuke Hamaguchi’s latest is a detour from the sprawling, monologue-laden drama of Drive My Car and the understated interpersonal encounters of Wheel of Fortune and Fantasy. Evil Does Not Exist opens with its camera tilted towards the sky, pushing forward over a ceiling of treetops. Natural environments overtake character drama. Numerous walking scenes are filmed from the prospective of flora, the camera crouched in a low-angle with out-of-focus stems obstructing the foreground. Hamaguchi expands his penchant for social drama into a broader sphere of non-human life. He crafts a deceptive eco-drama where quaintness morphs into a cryptic scream, both poetic and furious.

Evil Does Not Exist unfolds in Mizubiki Village, a quiet town outside Tokyo. Centred around Takumi (Hitoshi Omika), a stoic local handyman, we follow the community’s protest to an urban development company’s attempt to establish a glamping site in Mizubiki Village. As a centerpiece, Hamaguchi stages a townhall meeting captured with Wiseman-esque observational remove. Armed with reason, the villagers object to the glamping site’s shoddy schematics, including a septic tank placement which will pollute the local water supply. Yet conversation is futile. The development’s representatives (one well-intentioned yet naive, the other sinisterly opportunistic) are punching bags hired to absorb the locals’ grievances and offer noncommittal replies. They come from a different world, one of capitalist exploitation and hyperstimulation. The slow-paced, labour-intensive world of Mizubiki Village is an escapist fantasy from their lives of Zoom calls, finance graphs, and dating apps. Yet the destabilizing violence of their glamping project remains abstract to them.

If Drive My Car was about the agonizing quest to be understood, to articulate your unspeakable vulnerabilities to other humans, Evil Does Not Exist imagines a breakdown of communication. Words prove useless, and the film ends with an anguished cry. It’s not enough to be understood when your opposition disregards the sanctity of all life.

Laberint Sequences (Blake Williams)

Blake Williams, the Toronto-based 3D filmmaker, begins Laberint Sequences like a travelogue. We move through the Laberint d’Horta in Barcelona, a tourist-centric maze hedged from 750 metres of cypress trees in the city’s oldest garden. A statue of Eros rests at the maze’s centre, like a reward for its conquering. A maze is a structuralist puzzle, a solvable question where the enjoyment stems from the act of being lost, of aimlessly searching. But Laberint Sequences resists the temptation to metaphorize. Halfway through, Williams destabilizes his own footage, angling and skewing it jaggedly across the screen. The Laberint d’Horta becomes a passage into a different maze. In the second half, Williams repurposes William Cameron Menzies’ The Maze, an early 3D film and Menzies’ directorial swan song. The film’s a gothic highland horror B-movie most memorable for an amphibian plot twist. Laberint Sequences pays homage to the legacy of its own 3D practice, but this isn’t mere tribute. Cutting together footage from The Maze with shots of Deragh Campbell re-dubbing the audio, Williams holds an intertextual séance where old ghosts find new lives.

Mast-Del (Maryam Tafakory)

Iranian experimental filmmaker Maryam Tafakory’s Mast-Del is a visual poem about desire and censorship. It’s a narrative work where on-screen text describes the tender pillow talk between two women in bed. One shares a memory of a forbidden date with a man in Tehran years ago and the repressive state violence they incurred. As the end credits proudly announce, Mast-Del is a film produced without funding indebted to its inventory of visual sources. Against ambient luminary Sara Davachi’s haunting score, Tafakory builds a montage of abstraction, mixing original footage with re-interpreted clips from post-revolutionary Iranian cinema. Not unlike fellow Wavelengths film Laberint Sequences, Mast-Del proves the infinite possibilities of an image to conjure new meanings through modulation and recontextualization. It’s also a film about the intersection of art and authoritarian regimes, recognizing how oppression is deployed in equal parts across the human body and its culture.

Viji Unveils Video for New Song ‘Karaoke’

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Viji has shared a new single, ‘Karaoke’, alongside an accompanying visual. It’s taken from the London-based artist’s debut album So Vanilla, which was led by the song ‘Sedative’ and comes out October 27 via Speedy Wunderground. Check out the Claryn Chong-directed clip below.

“’Karaoke’ is a song that came out of a silly 10 min jam at the end of a writing session,” Viji explained in a statement. “I remember picking up the bass and just riffing with some filthy low-end sounds. Dan (Carey) felt the magic and we recorded 3 or 4 minutes of us going for it, followed by some guide vocals inspired by shouty Japanese punk songs I like. What the lyrics actually turned into is such a time stamp of what I was going through at that very moment.”

“The video is a collaboration with director Claryn Chong, whose made my sexy nightmares come to life,” Viji continued. “As an homage to where the album So Vanilla was recorded, we filmed the video on Streatham high street in London. Speedy Wunderground central!”

Album Review: Vagabon, ‘Sorry I Haven’t Called’

On her 2019 self-titled album as Vagabon, Laetitia Tamko traded the guitar-based indie rock stylings of 2017’s Infinite Worlds for a world of rich, evocative electronica. More than a sonic departure, though, the album showcased an artist capable of expanding her sound while retaining the tender intimacy of her earlier material, an evolution that continues on her latest effort, Sorry I Haven’t Called. Following the death of her best friend in 2021, Tamko wrote and produced the majority of the record in Germany, where she reconnected with, and sought ways to channel, her love of dance music. The result is the kind of upbeat, vibrant pop record that doesn’t feel detached from grief but creates a comforting space around it, tapping into a whirlwind of emotions without letting them overwhelm. “I don’t think I’m escaping,” Tamko sings on the opening track ‘Can I Talk My Shit?’, which features backing vocals from Julie Byrne, of all people. “I’m going to a place I know.” Around the making of Sorry I Haven’t Called, that place happened to be a dark club where, if you wanted to cry, you could do it in the company of others – and loud music.

While the indie rock songwriting of Vagabon’s debut was often billed as confessional, Tamko is veering away from that description, too, making songs that are emotive and conversational without strictly documenting her personal life. In press materials, she calls the album “completely euphoric,” explaining, “It’s because things were dark that this record is so full of life and energy.” But she still favours honesty, pairing the simple, effective hooks of the record’s first half in particular with clear, direct lyricism: “Can I be honest? I’ve been in the house spinning out,” she admits early on, before opening ‘You Know How’ with the question, “Honestly, how’ve you been?” Tamko allows herself to savour small, unexpected joys rather than letting fear overshadow them, which brings an air of lightness to these songs that feels precious and uncritical. It’s a direction that feels in line with the sophomore album from Arlo Parks or Clairo’s work with Rostam Batmanglij, who co-produced Sorry I Haven’t Called with Tamko in Los Angeles. But this record is also more outwardly sensual than anything on My Soft Machine or Immunity, dipping into sultry R&B on ‘Made Out With Your Best Friend’ in a way that feels genuinely invigorating.

But while the carefree springiness of Tamko’s approach as a whole is refreshing, the album benefits more from the vulnerability and atmospheric textures that seep through its best tracks, from the confrontational ‘Do Your Worst’ to the introspective ‘Autobahn’. Though the exuberance of ‘Lexicon’ is so low-key it almost breezes by without leaving much of an impact or distinctly registering as a Vagabon song, the tracks that follow are more naturally expressive in their arrangement: Jack Mclaine’s synth and drum programming on ‘Passing Me By’ are colourfully layered, and the gentle warmth of ‘Nothing to Lose’ melts away frustration to make way for a big revelation (“I want so much more than I’ve ever asked for before”). ‘It’s a Crisis’ might have quickly sounded stale were it not for Tamko’s subtle synth flourishes and the sudden addition of a saxophone, played by Henry Solomon to haunting effect.

By the time we get to the end, what should be Sorry I Haven’t Called‘s most familiar-sounding moment becomes its most surprising. Closer ‘Anti-Fuck’ calls back to Vagabon’s debut by bringing guitars back to the fore, embracing uncertainty on a record that exudes confidence at every turn. But though not quite “completely euphoric,” you get the sense it’s informed by the energy of the rest of the record, like returning to the same place, after a shitload of change, an entirely different person. You wish the album traced more of that journey instead of hinting at it, but it creates excitement for where Tamko will be taking things next; for a record so assured and hook-focused, it feels weirdly transitional. “Am I wrong to decide the last thing I want/ Is unknown,” she sings, but if the rising wave of distortion is what that space sounds like, who wouldn’t want to stay in it a little longer?

Book Review: Shigeru Kayama’s Godzilla and Godzilla Raids Again

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The making of Ishiro Honda’s 1954 film Godzilla has been extensively documented for English language markets—in books such as Steve Ryfle and Ed Godziszewski’s Ishiro Honda: A Life in Film, from Godzilla to Kurosawa, in Issue #10 of Godziszewski’s magazine Japanese Giants, in bonus features on various home media releases, etc. Through these studies, much attention has been granted to the film’s main creators (director Honda, producer Tomoyuki Tanaka, composer Akira Ifukube, and special effects director Eiji Tsuburaya), though other talents, while frequently acknowledged, haven’t received equal exposure. Among these collaborators is Shigeru Kayama, the prolific science fiction author Tanaka hired to cultivate a narrative from the concept of a monster besieging civilization.

A former economics student and bureaucrat, Kayama (1904-1975) had several poems and fiction pieces to his credit when Tanaka recruited him for Godzilla and throughout the remainder of his life published hundreds of short stories and novels. That said, his international obscurity remains unsurprising: a mere sample of his output’s presently available in English; and while his story established much of Godzilla’s structure and ideas, the actual shooting script was penned by Honda and scenarist Takeo Murata. For all these reasons, he’s remained a marginalized figure in the west, even among entrenched fans of Japanese science fiction.

But now, University of Minnesota Press and translator Jeffrey Angles have delivered a small remedy via the two-novella volume Godzilla and Godzilla Raids Again. Published in Japan in July 1955—shortly after the first Godzilla sequel, Motoyoshi Oda’s Godzilla Raids Again (for which Kayama also penned a foundational story), premiered in theaters—the text consists of Kayama adapting the films, with increments of his imagination sprinkled throughout. In what might be of disappointment to some, the author’s original stories for both projects aren’t included, but his novelizations capture the postwar science fiction framework that made the movies fascinating; and for genre fans there’s the pleasure of seeing familiar material reinterpreted (to varying degrees) by one of Godzilla’s overlooked creators.

Of the two novellas, Godzilla is the most engaging. While the narrative structure remains largely the same, Kayama changes up the dramatis personae and, in some respects, improves upon the film. For all its nightmarish imagery and emotional power, Honda’s Godzilla fell short of masterpiece status due to its prosaic lead, Ogata (played by Akira Takarada, whose truly memorable genre roles emerged when Japanese science fiction flourished in the 1960s). More often a witness to crucial scenes than a dramatic participant, Ogata paled against the conflicted people around him—namely Emiko Yamane and the forlorn Dr. Serizawa, whose trust the former betrayed to save Japan.

In Kayama’s novella, however, Ogata’s demoted to a supporting role, with protagonist reins granted to Shinkichi, the islander orphaned by Godzilla. By placing one of the monster’s victims at center stage, Kayama creates a more engaging hero whose response to continuous assaults on Japan—and whose qualms with hopes of preserving Godzilla for science—emotionally resonate, as there’s personal history involved. The author likewise does a better job emphasizing Shinkichi’s hatred for the monster (a logical character beat that seemed oddly wasted in the movie) and develops a more well-rounded relationship between his hero and Emiko (introducing them as childhood friends who met during a wartime evacuation).

In writing the script for Godzilla, Honda and Murata consciously attenuated Kayama’s political content, which more explicitly indicted the United States and their atomic tests. Allowed to tell the story his way again, Kayama devotes plenty of page space in his novella to Cold War paranoia. Characters speculate early-narrative shipping disasters are the handiwork of “an airplane or a Soviet submarine”; others suggest that, were these calamities the start of a new war, “enemy forces” would be targeting American military craft stationed in Japan. Kayama likewise goes further in detailing social responses to Godzilla; one subplot concerns a cult whose founder deifies the creature and actively torments the monster’s victims. All the while, the author keeps physical descriptions of Godzilla to a minimum (though noting his skin glows from radiation exposure), and admittedly fumbles in contextualizing his behavior.

Godzilla makes a grand reveal gnawing on livestock and plucking a woman from the ground—suggesting his rampages are driven by hunger (as in Kayama’s original story, wherein the beast attacked Tokyo to devour zoo animals and civilians). In the novella, however, this apparent motive’s swiftly abandoned, replaced by the film counterpart’s insatiable urge to destroy. Godzilla’s city rampages feature him vaporizing people rather than devouring them, plowing through buildings instead of scouring for their fleshy occupants; and when confronted by the military he puts up a fight before returning to the ocean. The results combine the best parts of two distinct visions of Godzilla—one as a ravenous carnivore, the other a walking embodiment of destruction—even if his intent becomes muddled along the way.

That said, Kayama retains the most crucial part of Godzilla’s original persona. As one character so eloquently states in both film and book, “Godzilla himself is the hydrogen bomb hanging over Japan right now.” Throughout, the characters compare the creature’s wrath to wartime events such as the atomic bombing of Nagasaki: a metaphor carried along by scenes of radioactive contamination and survivors dying of it. Director Ishiro Honda had witnessed Japan’s devastation returning from war service; and as Kayama admits in his opening prologue, he too felt concern over the proliferation of nuclear technology, fearing that should such weapons be used again “it wouldn’t just be big metropolises like Tokyo and Osaka that would be destroyed. The entire Earth would likely be laid waste.” This passionate stance—this use of monster as metaphor—renders Godzilla both a captivating read and an excellent companion piece to the Honda classic.

Sadly, Godzilla Raids Again, while a diverting piece of entertainment, is weaker on all fronts, taking its source film’s awkwardly structured narrative and doing little to improve upon or even distinguish it. On the positive side: Kayama recycles the movie’s depiction of working-class people rebuilding their lives after a (war-like) calamity and on that level is worth acknowledging as postwar literature; however, the author fails to deepen the characters or remedy narrative mistakes—e.g., introducing the spiky quadruped Anguirus as a rival monster and killing it off well before the drama ends. Changes this time are inconsequential (e.g., Anguirus can shoot atomic rays, but doesn’t use this ability to influence his scenes’ outcome), giving Godzilla Raids Again a coldly predictable feel. Jeffrey Angles’s concluding essay in the book notes that Kayama refused involvement with Godzilla following this project, claiming the monster living on constituted “a tacit approval of the hydrogen bomb.” One also suspects from this slavishly faithful second novella that he’d simply run out of ideas.

The remainder of Angles’s essay is tremendous, packed with details on Kayama’s life and early Godzilla media—including a little-discussed radio adaptation that preceded the 1954 film in release. He also delves into the challenges of converting the original Japanese into English (e.g., excessive onomatopoeias; we learn merimeri, for instance, originally stood in for the sound of crumbling buildings) and throughout the book provides informative footnotes delineating cultural observations and Japanese writing techniques. Notwithstanding one historical error in his essay (claiming Godzilla was the most expensive Japanese film at the time of its release, when its budget in fact was usurped by two other 1954 releases: Akira Kurosawa’s Seven Samurai and Hiroshi Inagaki’s Musashi Miyamoto), Angles’s contributions will be immeasurably useful to those interested in Shigeru Kayama and the beginnings of a pop culture icon. In an age where the vast majority of fandom clamors aggressively for overpriced plastic, Godzilla and Godzilla Raids Again is a treasure not to be missed.