It taught Lee to trust his personality as an auteur enough that he wouldn’t feel compelled to back it up with his personality as an actor.
If you were James Cagney’s mother, would you have rubbed the back of his neck? I didn’t think so.
White Heat’s ultimate message: love’s a bitch…even crypto-incestuous love.
Raoul Walsh’s fast-paced film makes its own case.
The Roaring Twenties revels in a relativism that keeps its momentum fresh and elusive.
A sick joke that should make strange bedfellows between pederasts and the insipid demographic that keeps Anne Geddes’s paper stacked.
The film is little more than a camp primer for the Huggies Pull-Ups crowd.
More than you ever wanted to know about the vagina, which isn’t good enough for Breillat.
Catherine Breillat stares down the utter arbitrariness of carnal disgust with Anatomy of Hell.
Legend needs to drive toward an original angle on neo-soul before he truly earns his moniker.
Push the Button is tinged with fatigue, but a decade of LSD has been known to have such side effects.
Since complaining about Oscar’s short-sightedness and asking for them to change their ways is as futile as asking for a recount in Ohio, let’s get this show on the road.
Another year, another award for multimedia synchronicity over artistic merit.
The Bush years have now given After Stonewall its sense of urgency.
The film is a blizzard of personal reminisces and internal epiphanies amid obvious touchstones.
You and I will be together ‘til the 6 is 9. That’s right.
The film’s deadly punchlines suggest the archetypal “cosmic joke” with more emphasis on the tragic side of the tragedy-comedy continuum.
As make-out music goes, Love Songs might only be fit for frantic masturbation, but as a tribute to a unique stylist, it’s essential.
Madvillainy is a chameleonic masterpiece that alone validates the artistry of sampler culture.
The animated sequences represent merely the most questionable formal tactic of a deeply cagey and secretive film.