🎩☕🎠“Listen closely now... the little noises are speaking truth in whispers, lies in lullabies, and dreams through a broken kazoo!”
Ohhh, what’s this? A wobbly fable found in the dusty corners of indie cinema’s attic! Little Noises—a film that twitches with poetic ambition and reeks (gloriously!) of VHS fuzz and cigarette-smoke dreams. The Mad Hatter swirled his absinthe, adjusted his mismatched socks, and leaned in.
This is the tale of Joey, a wannabe writer with more ambition than actual ability—a human sponge soaking up the brilliance of others and squeezing it into his own crooked mold. Played by Crispin Glover, who pirouettes on the knife-edge between genius and goblin. His performance? A stammering, twitching, glorious disaster—like watching a wind-up toy philosopher slowly unravel.
And then! The twist! Our dear Joey steals the poems of a deaf man, and suddenly finds himself the darling of downtown bohemia. Fame! Fortune! Finger-snapping beatnik parties! But oh! The cost! For every stolen stanza, his soul gets one shade dimmer. It’s Faust in flannel. It’s Amadeus with more facial tics and fewer powdered wigs.
The film itself? Rough around the edges, my dears, like a coffee-stained chapbook read by candlelight in a bathtub full of doubts. But it has soul. It has nerve. And it dares. It tiptoes between satire and tragedy, often tripping on its own boots, but always getting up to dance again—awkwardly, earnestly, wonderfully.
The soundtrack? A jittery jazz-spoken-word hybrid that feels like Tom Waits made love to a typewriter. The vibe? Grimy, melancholic, vaguely magical. A New York that doesn’t exist anymore, where every alley is a confession booth and every rooftop could sprout a poem.
Final Mad Hatter Verdict:
Little Noises is a beautiful little mess—a whisper of madness wrapped in stolen words. It trips on its own cleverness but bleeds sincerity. A forgotten bauble from the indie toy chest, gleaming faintly with artistic guilt and glittery dread. One part cringe, two parts genius, shaken with a typewriter ribbon and served in a cracked teacup.
Listen close, darling: the little noises might just be your conscience. Or maybe just Crispin Glover muttering sonnets in the dark. Either way—delicious.
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