What will make Ava DuVernay's film essential for future generations isn't mere flashpoint topicality, but the way it aligns an old struggle with a current one.
The film's chief misstep is taking its title too literally, and ultimately depicting Louie as an indestructible, and thus largely inhuman, superhero.
Clint Eastwood startlingly grips the audience with his sense of hypnotic silence, which carries suggestions of what might be termed politically apolitical pragmatism.
Marion Cotillard refuses easy characterization, conveying a haunted vision of courage in the face of almost certain oblivion.
It doesn't offer enough of Tim Burton's spirited eccentricity to register as anything other than what one character derides as "that representational jazz."
Proving Franklin's guilt becomes less essential than reiterating the continued complicity of a police state in aiding the systematic erosion of black communities.
This PG-rated romp is, refreshingly, less notable for its happily-ever-afters than its oh-no-they-didn'ts.
The filmmakers delve into a fantasyland of luxe coastal casinos and neon-lit bathhouses—as shrug-worthy a stab at picturing the contemporary black market as could be requested.
Andrey Zvyagintsev never loses sight of the humans, who're allowed to display improvisatory behavior that deepens the majesty of the rigorously orchestrated tableaus.
These films are most affecting in their depictions of friendship, and the performances here represent platonic male intimacy in convincing, often moving ways.
2014: Annie's America makes director John Huston's elephantine, synthetically charismatic 1982 adaptation look like a Minnelliesque model of focus and concision.
Even as it entertains increasingly far-fetched detours, the film's folkloric narrative offers an ideal vehicle for this pictorial play.
Mr. Turner is an astute summation of director Mike Leigh's glum view of humanity, but also a challenge to this disposition and his own pessimistic perspective.
Nuri Bilge Ceylan again exhibits his gift for making interesting stories out of predetermined plots, locating small eddies of change in the midst of eternally fixed dynamics.
If Junebug focused on quieter moments of extended family dynamics, Angus MacLachlan's Goodbye to All That never goes beyond signpost sentiment.
This third and supposedly final edition in the franchise is nothing more than an uncomfortably transparent contractual obligation.
The actors play off one another beautifully, but If You Don't, I Will bottoms out just as it's getting warmed up.
Had Lewis Carroll switched from jotting down his visions to carving them in stone, his works might have looked a lot like Antonio Gaudí's.
The dangers of filmmakers trying to replicate a golden era rather than embrace the present are part and parcel of Inherent Vice, but the ramifications are political as well.
It doesn't take long to realize that Ridley Scott's adaptation is only aiming for certain forms of credibility, and callously eschewing others.
It has the plot of an intensely lurid thriller, but Egoyan can't bring himself to face that and actively tend to the story; instead, he trades in barely coherent, high-brow euphemisms.
Without overlooking its lapses into populist bathos, it's necessary to rescue the film from its spot at the centerpiece of untouchable American "classics."
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