Pressure mounts on all sides to declare Tim Burton’s sweet and understated Big Eyes either a return to form or a turned corner.
A shrug-worthy stab at picturing the contemporary black market, delving into a fantasyland of luxe coastal casinos and neon-lit bathhouses.
What will make it essential for future generations isn’t mere flashpoint topicality, but the way it aligns an old struggle with a current one.
Migrating Forms remains the art-house event of the New York moviegoing calendar.
Liv Ullmann’s film is no tearjerker, but it makes the stage play’s guessing-game quality on screen without copping to reductivism.
It shrugs off the bigger questions about Iranian politics its first half appears to raise, falling back instead on a gestalt of the eternal, Kafkaesque regime, wherever the viewer may find it.
It places its characters in a reflexive historical continuum that dooms them to be mere demonstrative types from start to finish.
It’s hard to tell if the film is hampered or helped by the performances of its three stars, because it’s so amateurishly written and directed that their participation beggars belief.
To Keira Knightley’s credit, she’s all too willing to undercut her pretty-girl reputation by looking and acting a fool for Lynn Shelton’s camera.
As immersive as it is overstuffed, The Knick’s season finale opens on the anxious face of the hospital’s secretly pregnant benefactor.
An expensively mounted treatise on important issues that’s terrified to dig in obsessively, yet so ramrod-stiff with indignation that it never comes anywhere near compelling entertainment.
Director Steven Soderbergh’s gift for unfussily blocking The Knick’s scenes is made awesomely apparent in the opening.
Perry’s is an approach with honestly few contemporaries in American independent film.
It’s the multitude of miniature narratives that gives Pedro Costa’s film its abiding, silent outrage.
The change in seasons is a terrifically smart maneuver, even if it allows for some fairly obvious hopscotching.
Left Behind is one of those films so deeply, fundamentally terrible that it feels unwittingly high-concept.
Every substrata of music geekdom deserves a period piece as this swan song for the golden era of French house music.
While the trivia value may feel tremendous, only One9’s interviews with Nas, his father, and his brother, manage to make the doc legitimately moving—a history lesson in popular culture.
“Get the Rope” may mark the first time Soderbergh’s dazzling, inventive shooting style just can’t support the dramaturgy.
The film exudes a bizarre confidence in not trying to encapsulate Jimi Hendrix’s whole life in 120 minutes.