The film proceeds for a spell as a study of the surfaces of glamour, and an alluring one at that.
The film is an unvarnished look at a family rendered dysfunctional by the inevitability of death.
The film is a poignant portrait of the desire for queer kinship within one’s very bloodline.
Freudians will have a field day with Schleinzer’s 17th-century-set third feature.
This year’s festival didn’t lack for at once poetic and political works of art.
Jimpa’s exploration of non-binary identity ultimately proves superficial.
This curatorial eye felt like a particularly precious gift this year
In the film, pedagogy even has to share space with the carnal frisson of the dance floor.
The film is a philosophical account of the shaky ground that human existence stands on.
The film truthfully hints at the sharp whirs behind the smooth façade of everyday life.
The Ice Tower is, ultimately, an aesthetic and nostalgic exercise.
The through line of the film is rooted in an ancestral grudge that’s easily rekindled.
The film pledges allegiance to the material constituting the fabric of dreams.
The festival’s curatorial boldness has never felt so necessary.
It’s Not Me begins with a modest “I don’t know” as a riposte to a proposed riddle.
These three films bear the scars from a region’s history of violence like a fertile inheritance.
The film suggests that our sense of gender identity bears the imprints of our family histories.
The film is most memorable when it wallows in the allegorical registers of its images.
The festival’s greatest singularity is two-fold: its lack of pretense and judicious curatorial eye.
The documentary is a public relations exercise masquerading as a substantial fashion profile.