Whit Stillman's "urban haute bourgeoisie" are redeemed because the filmmaker takes custody of them, their idiosyncrasies, their flaws.
True to its title, Marielle Heller's adaptation of Phoebe Gloeckner's semi-autobiographical novel has the loosely structured, unfiltered feel of a young person's diary.
It can't resist winking at how this franchise manages to defy the limits of both human endurance and its superstar's rickety public status.
Father doesn't just know best, he's the only one whose knowledge or lack thereof means anything at all.
It does well in using dialogue to shape its escalating tête-à-tête, but the filmmaking is too fuzzy to expand on those ideas.
The poetic pretenses are compounded by a sledgehammer insistence on elusive and irreducible moments as inherently beautiful.
Here's a documentary so insidious, so comprehensively scrubbed clean, that it argues for the therapeutic powers of consumerism.
The film's denouement is at once shocking and organic because it echoes a well-paced but nasty children's fable.
Among the film's many revelations is the level of self-aware humility Brando exudes while talking about his life and creative process.
Breaking the laws of human nature is an ancient comic convention, but it only works when it leads to a laugh.
Writer-director Alex R. Johnson's film is the rare thriller that resounds with an authentic ring of chaos.
One senses that all of these kinds of docs are aggrandizing shrines made by artists trying to erect something out of nothing.
Robert Gordon and Morgan Neville reinforce the very circumstances they outwardly condemn.
Daniel Augusto relies on familiar tropes pertaining to the sexy, rebellious rock-star artist who does things his own way.
Tolerance in the film doesn't so much suggest a recognizably real epiphany as it does a moving Hallmark card.
When the film works, it does so largely because of the inherent bittersweet rush that the last few months of high school hold.
Like technological innovation itself, the film seems overwhelmed by the reach of all its techo-cultural parts.
As a Happy Madison production, it's exhaustively lazy, outside of its righteous dedication to the valorization of the man-child.
Each battle scar in the film is a testament to a vaguely but nonetheless forcefully defined notion of masculinity.
It never luxuriates in all this film history, but rather channels the artifice and affect it embodies into new insights.
Even as Samba struggles to hold onto his identity, the film becomes entangled in an identity crisis of its own.
It's the multitude of miniature narratives that gives Pedro Costa's film its abiding, silent outrage.
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