The film’s cheeky, satirical take on the inevitable friction between scientific progress and capitalism remains as relevant today as ever.
Its mechanical aesthetic suggests that rather than having to sublimate what remorse Tom Ripley might feel toward his actions, he simply doesn’t experience any.
Criterion’s splendid box finally preserves Pierre Étaix’s cinema du Nouvelle Slapstick for the digital age.
Its looseness adequately portrays Plimpton as an inwardly conflicted figure, but it fails to make much of a case for his legacy outside of The Paris Review’s still-noticeable brand.
Twilight Time’s high-def restorative efforts prove that Major Dundee is anything but minor Peckinpah.
Jonas Mekas’s camera is never passive, often seeming to feed upon sensation that energizes it to the point of jittery transcendence.
Clarke’s portrait immortalizes Jason Holliday in the same sense that a death mask might preserve its subject’s uncanny likeness.
Deceptive Practice never bothers to attempt the one thing we’d expect and hope from a documentary about Ricky Jay: It doesn’t try to bamboozle us.
Perhaps the most valuable insight that the film provides about its subject is that he acts even as he directs.
Carruth hopes that Upstream Color’s ending will eventually appear less resolved than its surface suggests.
The plot willfully denies our satisfaction, often at the risk of compromising its own structural integrity.
It’s not the past’s ugliness that terrifies us in Cimino’s film, but its far more intimidating immensity.
Maybe the best non-Ealing Brit comedy ever made, Clive Brook’s film has unfortunately received a Blu-ray treatment of which the serious cinephile can’t quite approve.
Criterion’s Ministry of Fear Blu-ray takes the cake—then blows it up, then goes hunting for its sweetly iced fragments.
That we feel the camera’s presence so resolutely gives the film an intermittently academic tone.
The mimetic ambiguities upon which Massadian’s film teeters are grossly evident in its sure-to-irk opening sequence.