Wiktor Ericsson emphasizes one of the strongest and most distinctive features of Joseph Sarno’s aesthetic: his concentration on female pleasure.
The film rehashes the same few superficial humanist/socialist platitudes over and over again, with such reliability as to nurture our complacency.
The film receives a gorgeous and exacting transfer that should surpass even a prickly cinephile’s greatest fantasies.
It waffles between dramatizing youthful self-absorption and succumbing to it, and this tonal instability comes to mirror the domestic discord that’s revealed to be its real subject.
Mathieu Amalric’s film abounds in guilt and grief, reveling in a general sense of hopelessly broken social connection.
Alain Resnais’s final film dares to push through the ghosts that inhabit the present.
The film’s so preoccupied with being “inspirational” that it disastrously fails to evoke the allure of rock ‘n’ roll when it represented an erosion of racial and sexual barriers.
Criterion legitimizes this brilliant musical X-ray with a transfer that admirably refuses to moot its seamy, gritty, furious poetry.
As executed by writer-director Ari Folman, the concept is tidy, superficially clever, and almost defiantly irrelevant.
The Legend of Hell House is a regrettably just-competent adaptation of a great American horror novel.
Lost in this barely coherent and clichéd hugger-mugger is the initial killer-website conceit and the attending erotic dread, which is retrospectively revealed to be an illusory siren call.
It’s accorded an uneven transfer that’s reliant on its cult’s relief that it’s available on Blu-ray at all.
Motel Hell The negligible receives an almost ludicrously affectionate package courtesy of Shout! that should please its admirers.
Michael Winterbottom and his gifted actors still haven’t quite solved the riddle of portraying social disconnection in a manner that’s anything other than sporadically involving.
The film seizes on a particular element of intellectualized youthful ennui with uncommon clarity and ferocity.
Allison Berg and Frank Keraudren’s doc is informed with a subtle but disquieting subtext that insists on the pitfalls of allowing ideology to steer you away from common sense.
Steven Soderbergh’s The Knick is informed by a hypnotic sense of old newness that’s reminiscent of Deadwood.
It’s hard not to greet this as a major and incredibly ambitious home-video event.
Swanberg’s films have grown into a reliable relief from the competitive, dehumanizing freneticism of much of American culture, marked by an affirming sense of decency.
This is less a movie than a dutiful renewal of a recognizable title’s licensing rights.