The disappointing extras shouldn’t detract from the charm of Bogdanovich’s lilting urban valentine.
The walls of urban corruption come tumbling down under Rosi’s muckraking gaze.
The film is a profoundly felt, gravelly beautiful work of faith.
Godard’s supernal meditation sublimely surveys the body while reaching for the heavens.
A surprisingly thin session, but, when Billy Wilder Speaks, cinephiles nevertheless should listen.
Laura is routinely seen as a prime slice of film noir, though Preminger scarcely delved into the furious paranoia that always was the genre’s bread and butter.
With Olmi, Kiarostami, and Loach aboard, this is a train certainly worth hopping.
Tickets offers a triptych of slender yet genuine delights.
The Girls is a confused feminist manifesto, but it’s at least never boring.
Check out George Cukor’s Les Girls instead.
As if Hollywood films needed any outside help to celebrate arrested narcissism, along comes The Last Kiss.
Only the film’s audience, too caught up in the euphoria of the show, remain oblivious to the real horrors on display.
The macho bluster taken seriously in the gorgeous but uninterestingly pumped-up The Untouchables is here intriguingly skewered.
It’s embalmed in the kind of amber more fitting for the 1890s Vienna of The Illusionist.
The contrast between the harsh chiaroscuro of the character’s reality and the overexposed brightness of his hallucinations is palpably felt.
From Strindberg to von Trier, there has always been a distinctively pokerfaced humor streak running through Scandinavian dourness.
This is at once De Palma’s most slapdash and most autobiographical picture.
Frank Tashlin fashioned a blend of joyous abandon and trenchant nihilism that continually undercut laughter with despair.
People in Frank Tashlin’s movies often become extensions of their material possessions, and the irony of the merchandising cuts both ways.
The film functions as both an exultant example of American vulgarity and a leveling thrashing of it.