The anti-establishment hipness of this animated film from the 1960s is such that it uses sans-serif fonts!
The rampant testimony detailing quotidian goings-on, future plans, and recurring dreams never fades into the picturesque landscape.
If trees with tits, Hawaiian cannibals, and a muted Kim Novak performance don’t drive you mad, nothing will.
The Seduction of Mimi is socio-political discourse, Italian style: Sex speaks louder than words on any given subject.
Another First Run Features infotainment doc with a regional environment focus.
Come for the boobs, stay for the existential meditations on human suffering.
In retrospect, the greatest achievement of Doc Watson, who died yesterday at 89, might have been his endlessly curious middle-aged brand.
An animated film with the cozy charm of an advertisement for Starbucks French Roast, A Cat in Paris is all design and no danger.
The premise of The Intouchables alone nearly renders analysis redundant.
Much like the work of generational cohort Michael Robinson, Perry’s films are steeped in a viscous cultural past.
The film’s peregrinating first half-hour establishes the odd, nearly incestuous, and unspoken relationship between the two titular women.
After this, Ringo’s gonna need Werner Herzog to make his life story interesting.
Girl on a Motorcycle imagines the distaff spirit as an uncontrollable orgy of speed and color.
David Grubin’s Downtown Express contains some of the most Lubitschian of filmic content in recent memory.
The film is unsurprisingly devoted to peddling mandolin prodigy Chris Thile as something daring, something new.
Ruggles of Red Gap is a schizo, slack-jawed, preemptive rejoinder to Frank Capra’s saintly sober “everyman.”
The documentary’s core is a series of hotel reminiscences by neighbors such as Jean-Jacques Lebel and Cyclops Lester.
Anglophiles should prepare themselves for death-by-1080p-orgasm.
We ultimately feel a sickeningly spongey understanding for every face to which the camera turns.
The film sludges an adaptive path through the eerily obviative, albeit technically first-person, text of Paul Bowles by the same name.