Thomas Vinterberg’s latest, like The Hunt, is ultimately a parable about breaking a social contract.
Concrete Cowboy is stirring when it really dives into specificity.
Throughout, J Blakeson crafts sharp, curt dialogue that makes a fashion statement out of contempt.
Throughout, the characters aren’t allowed to reveal themselves apart from the dictates of the plot.
The film suggests Hong Sang-soo’s fantasy of how women discuss him when he’s not around.
John Hyams’s film refutes the frenetic clichés of so modern American thrillers.
It’s a relief to have Schrader’s underrated sexual psychodrama outfitted with the ravishing transfer it deserves.
This set boasts enough supplements for at least two semesters’ worth of martial arts semiotics.
Honoring fact as well as fiction, Kenny mounts an ambitious mixture of cinephilic essay and true-crime exposé.
The film has a weird, ghostly, even beautiful pull, but it functions mostly on theoretical terms because Kaufman has thought it to death.
The film suggests that Bill and Ted’s dreams of stardom aren’t so stupid after all.
The exhilaration of virtual film festivals is that they radically expand the access and means of audiences.
A supplementary subject of most of Herzog’s work, which it shares with Chatwin’s, is a bottomless yearning for wonder.
Unhinged is essentially a nihilistic, style-free destructo-rama that’s designed to make us feel like shit.
The actor discusses his urge to utilize the happy accidents that can bring a scene to life.
Peninsula feels like the work of an artist who misunderstood his past triumph.
RZA’s film is atmospheric survey of the thankless world of the rich and the damned.
A profound sense of restlessness and loneliness haunts Michael Almereyda’s film, which reinvigorates the biopic genre.
Sputnik is an egregious missed opportunity that bites off more formulas than it can chew.
Perhaps as a result of her attempting to avoid all matter of clichés, not just of genre, Amy Seimetz revels in vagueness.