Arrow’s release of Brambilla’s sci-fi action satire is an embarrassment of riches.
The documentary is invigorated by Herzog’s persistently quixotic line of questioning.
Aguirre is Herzog, Herzog is Aguirre, and never shall the twain truly be separated.
Criterion’s transfer is as luminescent as Streisand’s screen presence.
It’s the sleek and triumphantly assured surface of the film that’s allowed it to endure.
The film paints a vivid portrait of what life was like for Black South Africans under apartheid.
Ninety-plus years have done little to dilute the swaggering power of Hawks’s film.
Fukasaku’s transitional film is one of the director’s least nihilistic works.
The film shows that the playbook of fascism has hardly changed over the past half-century.
Radiance’s box set highlights three lesser-known gems of mid-century Japanese horror.
The film is a woefully misguided VFX-aided odyssey through mid-20th-century America.
The film’s pleasures predominantly lie in its strange, often surrealistic artistry.
The film builds an all-consuming sense of dread and panic that almost sneaks up on you.
John Crowley’s film never builds to a cohesive, or emotionally satisfying, whole.
Guzmán’s three-part The Battle of Chile remains a landmark of activist cinema.
The audio commentary and top-notch A/V presentation make this Blu-ray a real contender.
The film obnoxiously looks back at the first SNL with the 20/20 vision of hindsight.
The utter weirdness of Cox’s remarkable debut would seem to preclude its existence.
The 4K digital transfer highlights the delicate beauty of Jamie Ramsay’s cinematography.
Fukasaku’s film excoriates the vision that Japan had of itself at this time.