It took Don Mancini 10 years to bring the Chucky franchise to its current homo glory, but the original Child’s Play is pretty gay.
Child’s Play is only a shade more terrifying than Teddy Ruxpin.
Taken together, these two films are like Marker’s epistemology of fiction vs. nonfiction.
Chris Marker has nine brains.
The implications of My Mexican Shivah are that we are judged by the actions and attitudes of those closest to us.
It aims for a self-knowingness that any of its prick-brained leads would mislabel as camp.
For its reissue, Criterion has ironed out a bunch of the kinks, though I still detect some edge enhancement in the film’s endless series of long shots.
Pier Paolo Pasolini’s boudoirs of perversion lack the Marquis de Sade’s scarlet hedonism.
Linda Lovelace is the comedy equivalent of a boner-kill.
I trust Linda Lovelace for President more than I trust at least 50 percent of the voters in the U.S.
The film is Decasia with its conscience raised and its volume turned way down.
While quite a few of the process and matte shots reveal the obvious seams, the print itself is clean and crystal clear.
Somewhere along the way, Xanadu got the exoneration never accorded its 1980 sisters in shame: Can’t Stop the Music and The Apple.
Merlin’s got the potion that will put your sword into motion.
And so it was, just like that, without potion, without alchemy, that I was shown the ropes at the tender age of 17.
Klein’s films may be more arrogant than anything by Jean-Luc Godard.
The producers of this DVD reissue made off with all the good extras.
Anything goes, indeed.
Crayons had us wishing that Summer would have found a few more songwriters who have at least graduated to using markers.
It’s amazing how much male pigs are attracted to Sly Stallone.