Terrence Malick’s The Tree of Life never stops moving forward.
Haynes’s Mildred Pierce finally seems like the most elaborately produced critical close reading of a novel of all time.
Deneuve is a bit like Garbo, in that we as an audience have always projected our own fantasies onto her phenomenal beauty.
The way Dolan shyly but boastfully showed me the Cocteau tattoo on his arm is not something I’m likely to forget.
Like so many movies that you don’t really need to see, it functions as a kind of notion in my head.
There was a line all the way down Second Street off Second Avenue in Manhattan last night.
I was moved by Requiem for a Dream, but boy, has he ever made me regret that initial feeling of enthusiasm.
Williams wrote great roles for women, so many that DiLeo is even able to plausibly include Mildred Dunnock and Madeleine Sherwood in his book and make convincing cases for their detailed work in supporting parts.
Some of the entries are set in stone from edition to edition, and that’s fine in most cases, but the entries that are being added on to can get somewhat broken-backed.
A long-overdue disc of a longtime audience favorite, with an absolutely tip-top image restoration.
Taken in total, these Akerman films have only whetted my appetite for more from her scattered, mysterious career.