Whatever Works is an infinitely savvier movie than it’s receiving credit for in the mainstream press.
One thing that Michelle Pfeiffer can’t be blamed for are the sins that the camera and the make-up artist perpetrate.
The Soloist is a crude fiasco that trivializes the very values it allegedly enshrines.
Only minutes in, Stephen Kijak establishes the latter-day Walker’s celebrated reclusiveness.
Jiří Menzel’s return to the cinema after 15 years of directing theater drags both of my pet peeves to the forefront, and then some.
Would it be an exaggeration to call Bliss the most significant work to emerge from Turkey in the past decade?
What I love about Tanaz Eshaghian’s filmmaking is how she stands completely out of the way.
It all begins in earnest tonight, the official opening of the 34th Seattle International Film Festival.
Armed with a life-affirming mocha breve from Caffé Zingaro, I make my way to the subterranean blue battleship known as SIFF Cinema.
Brian Kellow is nicely attuned to the soft/tough dichotomy in Merman. Here was a woman capable of sympathizing with her friend Judy Garland’s illness, yet blind to her own daughter’s needs.
There are, in this 158-minute film, a few effects, mainly photographic, that go right.
At age 63, he’s one of the few living links to a host of great British actors who are now gone: Gielgud, Olivier, James Mason, Alan Bates, Rachel Roberts.