Where to begin? At the end, perhaps, with the word sweet, the film’s answer to Mulholland Drive’s silencio.
This sexy, often funny comedy about AIDS is missing one important thing: a crucial sense of danger.
Writer-director John R. Hand’s film is a wild cocktail of nightmarish sensibilities.
It inadequately addresses how the elitism of the theater world explicitly works against Kushner’s attempts to bring his eye-opening work to the masses.
In expertly tracing how Republicans play a better game of politics than Democrats, it also provides the party of Kerry and Clinton with a handbook to switching the tables around in 2008.
Offside is another cyclically crafted jewel in the spectacular crown of Iran’s national cinema.
Bamako doesn’t correct the injustices committed by The Constant Gardener, reversing them by flaunting an all-brain-no-heart ethos.
Expertly groomed for Oscar, this laughable concoction barely passes for satire.
Manoel de Oliveira is someone Luis Buñuel actively rebelled against: an aesthete.
The stench of the film is overwhelming, signaling the start of the Oscar season.
Sucks to be Nearing Grace on the same week that Zerophilia opens.
Remarkably, Coppola doesn’t ask us to take Marie Antoinette as she thinks she was, but as she probably was.
The film makes Héctor Babenco’s Ironweed look like Umberto D.
Blood Tea and Red String’s greatest innovation is a castle’s fountain water.
Zerophiliacs do not exist, but the conviction and daring of this feature-film debut by Martin Curland inspires belief in the impossible.
The film is a sham that no amount of droopy-dog posturing by James Franco can alleviate.
Stick this kaleidoscopic ode to the feisty, self-empowering female spirit in your DVD player.
This is a unique audio-video sensory experience, most striking in the exactness of its aloofness and monotony.
The gothic-printed message of the title card forecasts the film’s ether-ness, which crests over us like the veil of the cinema’s original corpse bride.
One could say that the sparse décor of the titular abode’s interior explains-if not necessary excuses-the disc’s slim extras.