The received wisdom on Jacques Rivette, for supporters and detractors alike, is that his is a cinema of endurance.
The Bridge never earns its parallel to Pieter Brueghel’s “Landscape with the Fall of Icarus.”
Everything and everyone is whittled down to fit, peg-like, into corresponding black holes of socially progressive allegory.
Alain Resnais’s Gallic transposition of British playwright Alan Ayckbourn’s Private Fears in Public Places is a masterful trifle.
Kon once more trains his thematic sights on collective societal madness in Paprika.
What holds everything in place are the physiognomies of the primarily non-professional cast.
August Days seems a profound amalgam of all the versions of this story that could ever be told.
Any movie that begins with an extended Marguerite Duras quote is sure to be locked into a way-off-center groove.
There’s little sense here of a journey reaching culmination, experience left visibly in its wake.
There’s little of substance here beyond a slightly pleasurable twinge of recognition.
Alberto Lattuada’s Mafioso is many things, but a good movie ain’t one of ‘em.
Saul Levine’s edge is his elation and his constant pricks at our consciousness bring about a sort of revelatory catharsis.
The slippery slope of civilization is already in place on The Wire and Simon is just out to document how each and every person survives.
Climates suggests Neil LaBute directing an apolitical rendering of Hiroshima, Mon Amour.
Brian De Palma eschews the Classics Illustrated mannerisms of L.A. Confidential in his adaptation of James Ellroy’s novel.
This is as detestable a hard-R offense as has ever been released to theaters.
One of the great works of Iranian cinema.
Elem Klimov’s grief-stricken elegy Larisa examines the life of his late wife.
How far ingrained the thoughts of man before they usurp the ways of God?
There’s not so much an Oliver Stone shot as there is an Oliver Stone rhythm.