After a while it seems like one needs to be in some kind of dream state in order to properly savor the film.
Almudena Carracedo and Robert Bahar’s documentary is monumental for its clamorous sounding of an alarm.
The film is a tale about how those who spiral so far out of control become blind, if not immune, to the severity of their symptoms.
Lila Avilés’s film reserves the possibility of flirtations with disaster to turn into acts of emancipation.
Claire Simon knows that the best way to capture the anxiousness of a moment is to leave it unembellished.
The film sidesteps all ambiguity, revealing everything about its characters straight away.
Zain Al Rafeea’s naturalness, however uncanny, only makes the film’s maneuverings seem all the more obvious.
Director and co-writer Milad Alami’s film feels like several fused-together trial drafts of the same narrative.
The film is an impressive aesthetic experiment, throughout which sexual desire is everywhere but never acted on.
Shevaun Mizrahi’s documentary is a master class in the art of the portrait.
Adrian’s plight is too generic for his tears to count as something other than a sentimental ready-made.
Passion, along with the delicious disorder that so often accompanies it, is only allowed into the film toward the end.
Its documentary approach is scarcely exuberant, but Yayoi Kusama’s resilience still commands our attention.
AIDS is everywhere in Christophe Honoré’s film, though not as a looming monster sneakily picking its next victim.
The Wife beats us over the head with a morality tale of women not standing a chance in the workplace.
The film’s refusal to produce a campy critique feels more like the product of lack of imagination than a purposeful repudiation.
The film is a rebellion of surfaces that never quite reaches, or emanates from, the underpinning roots of its fable.
The very act of having kids and demanding perfect conformity from them is never questioned by the film.
It reveals that Alexander McQueen’s suicide was perhaps the all-too-predictable ending to a history of violence.
The old punk has put down the makeshift ethos of safety pins in favor of glossy couture and seamless tailoring.