Sam Raimi’s sequel/remake is full-on gore slapstick, more Tex Avery than Dario Argento.
Raimi’s splatter-slapstick classic gets the deluxe treatment. In Ash’s immortal words: "Groovy."
Hardly a drag. Fifteen years later, Paris still burns with life.
Jennie Livingston’s preference for feeling over exoticism secures an ultimately hopeful study of the search for personal wholeness.
Slant recently spoke with the director about Monty Python, Buñuel, the hardships of dark comedy and the elusiveness of perfection.
The anamorphic transfer is very pleasing, the crispness highlighting the visual felicities of Weir’s style, such as the subtle unreality of some of the images and the somewhat sinister sunniness of Seahaven.
Director Peter Weir and screenwriter Andrew Niccol merely settle for purveying unthreatening, self-satisfied cleverness.
We could all stand to learn the lessons of Rossellini and Bazin.
I will not skimp on sublimity. I will not skimp on sublimity.
The film’s theme is less the simplicity of religion than the religiosity of simplicity.
No fragmented or psychedelic stone was left unturned in Suzuki’s genre demolition jobs.
Suzuki finds romance on the warfront, sacrificing none of his subversive edge, meth-delirium, and disjunctive lyricism.
Life is fucked up, Araki is saying, but it’s worth living.
The film has more than enough angst and alienation to go around.