Cái lúc con It mở mồm ra xong có mấy cái ánh sáng chiếu mặt con Bev kb có phải nó đang nhá hàng true form ko.
Đã có con số doanh thu thực tế http://www.boxofficemojo.com/weekend/chart/ Riêng IT đã chiến 75.4% doanh thu của cả Bắc Mỹ tuần rồi (123.4m/163.5m - 125 bộ phim), làm doanh thu tăng 63% so với cùng cuối tuần năm ngoái. Và vẫn hài cái vụ WB. tính thiếu 6m, từ 117 lên 123
Annabelle nội dung tập trung vào hù dọa, chặt chẽ hơn, không lan man. Jumpscare nhiều dễ dọa người ta hơn. Đám nv có em Linda hài nổi bật, gây bão mxh. Bad end chuẩn phong cách phim kinh dị. It hay, con hề cũng gớm. Hình ảnh max đẹp. Nhưng phim ít dùng jumpscare, chỉ dựa vào hình ảnh để dọa người xem, mà cái này hên xui người ta không thấy hình ảnh đủ ghê rợn thì người ta không sợ thôi. Với cả phim này dọa ma chỉ là phụ, trọng tâm là câu chuyện đời sống & tình bạn của bọn trẻ con, cuối phim đưa ra thông điệp tích cực khi để bọn trẻ hiệp lực đánh bại cái ác. Tóm lại cốt lõi nó là coming of age story khoác áo horror. Ngoài ra thì cách dẫn chuyện hơi có vấn đề ở nửa đầu. M đi xem hôm 8/9 ở Lotte thấy phản ứng người xem cũng tốt, nhưng lúc xem Annabelle rộn hơn nhiều Đến đoạn đánh xong boss là nhiều người đứng lên đi về rồi.
Annabelle chỉ là phim dọa ma đơn thuần, đâu có nội dung cốt truyện gì sâu sắc sao mà so sánh được được cái nhiều pha hài hơn... có nhiều chuyên gia so sánh phim này kém xa Stranger Things, mình thì thấy ST cũng tầm tầm ko nổi bật lắm
Xoá nick fb lập nick mới được rồi Mà đúng là con hề này ko có ghê, với lại đây là phim kinh dị ko phải phim ma
Ông theo dõi BO mà không biết 1 trong những điều cơ bản nhất của BO là studio luôn hạ thấp con số doanh thu tuần mở màn?? bao gồm cả doanh thu dự đoán mở màn trước khi phim ra mắt và con số estimate vào sáng CN,con số studio đưa ra luôn là thấp nhất trong các nguồn . Số thực thấp hơn mới đáng nói chứ cao hơn quá chi bình thường . Vd IT WB prediction : 50m+ trong khi có các nguồn tracking khác từ 60-75m+. Con số estimate vào sáng CN 117OW các nguồn khác 120m+ Lý do?? để khi hết tuần trên báo chí studio có thể nói là ồ bộ phim đã vượt qua kỳ vọng của họ thực tế thì con số họ dự đoán và mong đợi thường cao hơn những gì họ công bố, đặc biệt phim doanh thu càng khủng, càng phá nhiều kỷ lục có good- great review càng bị hạ thấp nhiều, vd kinh điển là SW7 số thực lớn hơn số dự đoán studio khoảng 10 củ và khi có con số thực chúng ta sẽ có tiêu đề báo chí kiểu như bộ phim x vượt xa tất cả mọi dự đoán, chúng tôi không thể tưởng tượng được khán giả thích phim x đến thế, phenomenon WOM, fantastic film etc... 1 cách để marketing đấy. Muốn xem sớm con số doanh thu tuần mở màn đừng bao h nhìn vào BOM chỉ đăng số của studio các trang như BOR và Deadline có con số chuẩn xác hơn nhiều.
nói linh tinh, cảm tính. studio est có cao có thấp hơn actual, không phải trò mèo Việt Nam hay Trung Quốc mà khai man. BOM không phải là 1 nguồn, nó là trang tổng hợp số liệu, sô liệu của nó luôn là chậm nhất, nó cũng không bao giờ có predic trong 1 tuần / 1 tháng như các trang khác. Mọi người trích dẫn nguồn của nó vì nó có cơ sở và trình bày đẹp (tuy thi thoảng có vài lần update nhầm) . Còn con số xin lỗi chứ mấy mem trong BOT còn dự đoán chính xác hơn mấy nhà báo của Deadline. Trích dẫn nguồn thì nhờ coi lại 5 trang gần đây xem nguồn ở đâu. Quay lại vụ WB. dự đoán sai thì rất nhiều chỗ nói chứ không phải cảm tính như thanh nhiên nghĩ.
Trang này, các đoạn quote đỏ, rải rác trong truyện http://themuse.jezebel.com/about-the-gross-child-sex-scene-in-it-that-didnt-make-i-1802676064
dark tower mà doanh thu cũng tốt cộng với có tí kết nối cameo với IT thì năm nay stephen king lên quá, tiếng tăm lừng lẫy nay lại càng khủng bố hơn
Spoiler 1 easter-eggs của phim IT liên kết với vũ trụ của Stephen King. Trong phim cái đoạn nó nhảy từ trên xuống bơi xong có 1 đứa lặn xuống kêu thấy có con rùa . Con rùa đó chính là Maturin - kẻ thù của IT. Đoạn này hơi nhanh vì nó cắt cảnh lun
Làm ăn thất đức vãi ra, bảo vệ gì mà để nó thịt bao người, trong truyện đó đoạn nào con rùa nó ngăn thằng IT không bạn?
11 Spoiler: Beverly Before the last of the light faded and utter dark closed down, she saw Bill’s wife plunge another twenty feet and then fetch up again. She had begun to spin, her long red hair fanning out. His wife, she thought. But I was his first love, and if he thought some other woman was his first, it was only because he forgot . . . forgot Derry. Then she was in darkness, alone with the sound of the falling web and Eddie’s simple moveless weight. She didn’t want to let him go, didn’t want to let his face lie on the foul floor of this place. So she held his head in the crook of an arm that had gone mostly numb and brushed his hair away from his damp forehead. She thought of the birds . . . that was something she supposed she had gotten from Stan. Poor Stan, who hadn’t been able to face this. All of them . . . I was their first love. She tried to remember it—it was something good to think about in all this darkness, where you couldn’t place the sounds. It made her feel less alone. At first it wouldn’t come; the image of the birds intervened—crows and grackles and starlings, spring birds that came back from somewhere while the streets were still running with meltwater and the last patches of crusted dirty snow clung grimly to their shady places. It seemed to her that it was always on a cloudy day that you first heard and saw those spring birds and wondered where they came from. Suddenly they were just back in Derry, filling the white air with their raucous chatter. They lined the telephone wires and roofpeaks of the Victorian houses on West Broadway; they jostled for places on the aluminum branches of the elaborate TV antenna on top of Wally’s Spa; they loaded the wet black branches of the elms on Lower Main Street. They settled, they talked to each other in the screamy babbling voices of old countrywomen at the weekly Grange Bingo games, and then, at some signal which humans could not discern, they all took wing at once, turning the sky black with their numbers . . . and came down somewhere else. Yes, the birds, I was thinking of them because I was ashamed. It was my father who made me ashamed, I guess, and maybe that was Its doing, too. Maybe. The memory came—the memory behind the birds—but it was vague and disconnected. Perhaps this one always would be. She had— Her thoughts broke off as she realized that Eddie 12 Spoiler: Love and Desire/August 10th, 1958 comes to her first, because he is the most frightened. He comes to her not as her friend of that summer, or as her brief lover now, but the way he would have come to his mother only three or four years ago, to be comforted; he doesn’t draw back from her smooth nakedness and at first she doubts if he even feels it. He is trembling, and although she holds him the darkness is so perfect that even this close she cannot see him; except for the rough cast he might as well be a phantom. “What do you want? ” he asks her. “You have to put your thing in me, ” she says. He tries to pull back but she holds him and he subsides against her. She has heard someone—Ben, she thinks—draw in his breath. “Bevvie, I can’t do that. I don’t know how—” “I think it’s easy. But you’ll have to get undressed. ” She thinks about the intricacies of managing cast and shirt, first somehow separating and then rejoining them, and amends, “Your pants, anyway. ” “No, I can’t!” But she thinks part of him can, and wants to, because his trembling has stopped and she feels something small and hard which presses against the right side of her belly. “You can, ” she says, and pulls him down. The surface beneath her bare back and legs is firm, clayey, dry. The distant thunder of the water is drowsy, soothing. She reaches for him. There’s a moment when her father’s face intervenes, harsh and forbidding (I want to see if you’re intact) and then she closes her arms around Eddie’s neck, her smooth cheek against his smooth cheek, and as he tentatively touches her small breasts she sighs and thinks for the first time This is Eddie and she remembers a day in July—could it only have been last month?—when no one else turned up in the Barrens but Eddie, and he had a whole bunch of Little Lulu comic books and they read together for most of the afternoon, Little Lulu looking for beebleberries and getting in all sorts of crazy situations, Witch Hazel, all of those guys. It had been fun. She thinks of birds; in particular of the grackles and starlings and crows that come back in the spring, and her hands go to his belt and loosen it, and he says again that he can’t do that; she tells him that he can, she knows he can, and what she feels is not shame or fear now but a kind of triumph. “Where? ” he says, and that hard thing pushes urgently against her inner thigh. “Here, ” she says. “Bevvie, I’ll fall on you!” he says, and she hears his breath start to whistle painfully. “I think that’s sort of the idea, ” she tells him and holds him gently and guides him. He pushes forward too fast and there is pain. Ssssss!—she draws her breath in, her teeth biting at her lower lip and thinks of the birds again, the spring birds, lining the roofpeaks of houses, taking wing all at once under low March clouds. “Beverly? ” he says uncertainly. “Are you okay? ” “Go slower, ” she says. “It’ll be easier for you to breathe. ” He does move more slowly, and after awhile his breathing speeds up but she understands this is not because there is anything wrong with him. The pain fades. Suddenly he moves more quickly, then stops, stiffens, and makes a sound—some sound. She senses that this is something for him, something extraordinarily special, something like . . . like flying. She feels powerful: she feels a sense of triumph rise up strongly within her. Is this what her father was afraid of? Well he might be! There was power in this act, all right, a chain-breaking power that was blood-deep. She feels no physical pleasure, but there is a kind of mental ecstasy in it for her. She senses the closeness. He puts his face against her neck and she holds him He’s crying. She holds him. And feels the part of him that made a connection between them begin to fade. It is not leaving her, exactly; it is simply fading, becoming less. When his weight shifts away she sits up and touches his face in the darkness. “Did you? ” “Did I what? ” “Whatever it is. I don’t know, exactly. ” He shakes his head—she feels it with her hand against his cheek. “I don’t think it was exactly like . . . you know, like the big boys say. But it was . . . it was really something. He speaks low so the others can’t hear. ”I love you, Bevvie. ” Her consciousness breaks down a little there. She’s quite sure there’s more talk, some whispered, some loud, and can’t remember what is said. It doesn’t matter. Does she have to talk each of them into it all over again? Yes, probably. But it doesn’t matter. They have to be talked into it, this essential human link between the world and the infinite, the only place where the bloodstream touches eternity. It doesn’t matter. What matters is love and desire. Here in this dark is as good a place as any. Better than some, maybe. Mike comes to her, then Richie, and the act is repeated. Now she feels some pleasure, dim heat in her childish unmatured sex, and she closes her eyes as Stan comes to her and she thinks of the birds, spring and the birds, and she sees them, again and again, all lighting at once, filling up the winter-naked trees, shockwave riders on the moving edge of nature’s most violent season, she sees them take wing again and again, the flutter of their wings like the snap of many sheets on the line, and she thinks: A month from now every kid in Derry Park will have a kite, they’ll run to keep the strings from getting tangled with each other. She thinks again: This is what flying is like. With Stan as with the others, there is that rueful sense of fading, of leaving, with whatever they truly need from this act—some ultimate—close but as yet unfound. “Did you? ” she asks again, and although she doesn’t know exactly what “it” is, she knows that he hasn’t. There is a long wait, and then Ben comes to her. He is trembling all over, but it is not the fearful trembling she felt in Stan. “Beverly, I can’t, ” he says in a tone which purports to be reasonable and is anything but. “You can too. I can feel it. ” She sure can. There’s more of this hardness; more of him. She can feel it below the gentle push of his belly. Its size raises a certain curiosity and she touches the bulge lightly. He groans against her neck, and the blow of his breath causes her bare body to dimple with goosebumps. She feels the first twist of real heat race through her—suddenly the feeling in her is very large; she recognizes that it is too big (and is he too big, can she take that into herself? ) and too old for her, something, some feeling that walks in boots. This is like Henry’s M-80s, something not meant for kids, something that could explode and blow you up. But this was not the place or time for worry; here there was love, desire, and the dark. If they didn’t try for the first two they would surely be left with the last. “Beverly, don’t—” “Yes. ” “I . . . ” “Show me how to fly, ” she says with a calmness she doesn’t feel, aware by the fresh wet warmth on her cheek and neck that he has begun to cry. “Show me, Ben. ” “No . . . ” “If you wrote the poem, show me. Feel my hair if you want to, Ben. It’s all right. ” “Beverly . . . I . . . I . . . ” He’s not just trembling now; he’s shaking all over. But she senses again that this ague is not all fear—part of it is the precursor of the throe this act is all about. She thinks of (the birds) his face, his dear sweet earnest face, and knows it is not fear; it is wanting he feels, a deep passionate wanting now barely held in check, and she feels that sense of power again, something like flying, something like looking down from above and seeing all the birds on the roofpeaks, on the TV antenna atop Wally’s, seeing streets spread out maplike, oh desire, right, this was something, it was love and desire that taught you to fly. “Ben! Yes!” she cries suddenly, and the leash breaks. She feels pain again, and for a moment there is the frightening sensation of being crushed. Then he props himself up on the palms of his hands and that feeling is gone. He’s big, oh yes—the pain is back, and it’s much deeper than when Eddie first entered her. She has to bite her lip again and think of the birds until the burning is gone. But it does go, and she is able to reach up and touch his lips with one finger, and he moans. The heat is back, and she feels her power suddenly shift to him; she gives it gladly and goes with it. There is a sensation first of being rocked, of a delicious spiralling sweetness which makes her begin to turn her head helplessly from side to side, and a tuneless humming comes from between her closed lips, this is flying, this, oh love, oh desire, oh this is something impossible to deny, binding, giving, making a strong circle: binding, giving . . . flying. “Oh Ben, oh my dear, yes, ” she whispers, feeling the sweat stand out on her face, feeling their connection, something firmly in place, something like eternity, the number 8 rocked over on its side. “I love you so much, dear. ” And she feels the thing begin to happen—something of which the girls who whisper and giggle about sex in the girls’ room have no idea, at least as far as she knows; they only marvel at how gooshy sex must be, and now she realizes that for many of them sex must be some unrealized undefined monster; they refer to the act as It. Would you do It, do your sister and her boyfriend do It, do your mom and dad still do It, and how they never intend to do It; oh yes, you would think that the whole girls’ side of the fifth-grade class was made up of spinsters-to-be, and it is obvious to Beverly that none of them can suspect this . . . this conclusion, and she is only kept from screaming by her knowledge that the others will hear and think her badly hurt. She puts the side of her hand in her mouth and bites down hard. She understands the screamy laughter of Greta Bovvie and Sally Mueller and all the others better now: hadn’t they, the seven of them, spent most of this, the longest, scariest summer of their lives, laughing like loons? You laugh because what’s fearful and unknown is also what’s funny, you laugh the way a small child will sometimes laugh and cry at the same time when a capering circus clown approaches, knowing it is supposed to be funny . . . but it is also unknown, full of the unknown’s eternal power. Biting her hand will not stay the cry, and she can only reassure them—and Ben—by crying out her affirmative in the darkness. “Yes! Yes! Yes!” Glorious images of flight fill her head, mixing with the harsh calling of the grackles and starlings; these sounds become the world’s sweetest music. So she flies, she flies up, and now the power is not with her or with him but somewhere between them, and he cries out, and she can feel his arms trembling, and she arches up and into him, feeling his spasm, his touch, his total fleeting intimacy with her in the dark. They break through into the lifelight together. Then it is over and they are in each other’s arms and when he tries to say something—perhaps some stupid apology that would hurt what she remembers, some stupid apology like a handcuff, she stops his words with a kiss and sends him away. Bill comes to her. He tries to say something, but his stutter is almost total now. “You be quiet, ” she says, secure in her new knowledge, but aware that she is tired now. Tired and damned sore. The insides and backs of her thighs feel sticky, and she thinks it’s maybe because Ben actually finished, or maybe because she is bleeding. “Everything is going to be totally okay. ” “A-A-Are you shuh-shuh-shuh-hure? ” “Yes, ” she says, and links her hands behind his neck, feeling the sweaty mat of his hair. “You just bet. ” “Duh-duh-does ih-ih . . . does ih-ih-ih—” “Shhh . . . ” It is not as it was with Ben; there is passion, but not the same kind. Being with Bill now is the best conclusion to this that there could be. He is kind; tender; just short of calm. She senses his eagerness, but it is tempered and held back by his anxiety for her, perhaps because only Bill and she herself realize what an enormous act this is, and how it must never be spoken of, not to anyone else, not even to each other. At the end, she is surprised by that sudden upsurge and she has time to think: Oh! It’s going to happen again, I don’t know if I can stand it— But her thoughts are swept away by the utter sweetness of it, and she barely hears him whispering, “I love you, Bev, I love you, I’ll always love you” saying it over and over and not stuttering at all. She hugs him to her and for a moment they stay that way, his smooth cheek against hers. He withdraws from her without saying anything and for a little while she’s alone, pulling her clothes back together, slowly putting them on, aware of a dull throbbing pain of which they, being male, will never know, aware also of a certain exhausted pleasure and the relief of having it over. There is an emptiness down there now, and although she is glad that her sex is her own again, the emptiness imparts a strange melancholy which she could never express . . . except to think of bare trees under a white winter sky, empty trees, trees waiting for blackbirds to come like ministers at the end of March to preside over the death of snow. She finds them by groping for their hands. For a moment no one speaks and when someone does, it does not surprise her much that it’s Eddie. “I think when we went right two turns back, we shoulda gone left. Jeez, I knew that, but I was so sweaty and frigged up—” “Been frigged up your whole life, Eds, ” Richie says. His voice is pleasant. The raw edge of panic is completely gone. “We went wrong some other places too, ” Eddie says, ignoring him, “but that’s the worst one. If we can find our way back there, we just might be okay. ” They form up in a clumsy line, Eddie first, Beverly second now, her hand on Eddie’s shoulder as Mike’s is on hers. They begin to move again, faster this time. Eddie displays none of his former nervous care. We’re going home, she thinks, and shivers with relief and joy. Home, yes. And that will be good. We’ve done our job, what we came for, now we can go back to just being kids again. And that will be good, too. As they move through the dark she realizes the sound of running water is closer. Spoiler In IT, the Turtle is the long time enemy of the creature, It. In 1958, the Turtle communicates with Bill Denbrough for a moment while he is under an illusion created by IT. Bill pleads for help from the Turtle in defeating IT but the Turtle says he does not get involved with those matters. Pleading again, the Turtle simply gives some advice in that he must stand by his friends and perform the Ritual of Chud. In 1985, when Bill and the remaining member of the Losers Club returned to finally kill IT, Bill is told that the Turtle has died sometime after their last meeting in 1958
Phải nói cực kỳ mê mẩn với những sinh vật khổng lồ mà ở dưới biển kiểu này, như hồi nhỏ đọc truyện Doremon, có tập con thủy quái, hoặc tập nobita lạc về quá khứ cũng đứng trên cái mai rùa, rồi vẽ cảnh nó quay đầu lại nhìn nobita, khiếp
