James Dean getting new movie role thanks to CGI. Dude died in 1955. Reality is a fucking ‘Black Mirror’ episode, my dudes
James Dean! Equally dead and gorgeous as fuck. But thanks to CGI, the former ain’t gonna prevent the latter from coming to movie screens. Dude is getting a new movie role, thanks to CGI. This, uh, this is fucked, right?
I guess, I’m sort of burned out on Black Mirror? That said, I’m sure I’ll end up watching this new season. I’m a fraud.
Dropping tomorrow, baby!
‘Black Mirror: Bandersnatch’ is a Choose Your-Own Adventure movie with five fucking hours of footage
Black Mirror getting real, real weird with it. I mean, a fucking choose-your-own-adventure movie? Five hours of footage? Wild.
Apparently, Netflix is celebrating thirteen days of Black Mirror. The company has dropped a trailer for the episode titled Arkangel to commemorate, uh, one of the days. I ain’t watching it, wanting to keep it all a surprise, but you certainly may!
FUCK. I cannot wait to be incredibly depressed by Black Mirror‘s fourth season. In particular, I cannot wait to be incredibly depressed by the episode directed by American Gods‘ David Slade.
Charlie Booker’s Black Mirror is a stark take on our dystopian future-present. It’s incisive, wonderful, and depressing as fuck. If you’ve spent time wondering how else you can get Booker’s insight into our present techno-rot, having finished the series, well good fucking news. The show is being adapted into a book anthology series.
An episode of Black Mirror, “Playtest”, is the only work I’ve seen of Hannah John-Kamen. That said, she’s great in it, and I’m stoked that she’s joining the sequel to the sneakily enjoyable Ant-Man.
John Hillcoat has been tapped to direct an episode of Black Mirror‘s fourth season. Oh yeah. Black Mirror. Season 4! It’s coming, and you’ll be able to enjoy it, in-between. You know. Living in this reality, which is a fucking episode of the show unto itself.
Monday Night, another Monday Night. Less hectic than most, more hectic than some. But I’m here, and so I type, and so as I type the sands of time drain. Both towards the moment of imminent slumber, and the moment of eternal slumber, the eradication of order on a cellular level for one Ian Omega. What’s weird? On this autumnal night, less hectic than most, more hectic than some? What’s weird is that I fear the former more than the latter. The former brings the siren screech of an alarm clock, the latter brings at worst Nada and at best Something Else.
All of this is neither here nor there, though, neither here nor there.
For this right here is Monday Morning Commute.