In lieu of any competent drama, we get stylistic excess that feels like overcompensation.
Well aware of the fatigue that inevitably surrounds a series this old, the film fixates on, well, age.
For Wilde, this film about the troubled marriage between a neurotic and a cynic is personal.
Writer-director Ian Tuason delights in deploying sound to eerily suggestive ends.
Aidan Zamiri’s meta mockumentary about Brat Summer places vibes above storytelling.
The film is most interesting when it’s keyed to its main character’s existential malaise.
The film could be seen as a show of Buddhist acceptance of art’s transience.
Ella McCay seeks to project optimism in a time of unrelenting divisiveness.
The relative restraint of La Grazia makes its baroque flourishes stand out all the more.
There’s pleasure to Nouvelle Vague’s winking affection for Godard’s Breathless.
Across Park’s film, “no other choice” becomes a kind of disingenuous mantra.
For better and worse, Love, Brooklyn makes little room for cynicism.
For every moment of electrifying horror, the film cleanses the palette with comic relief.
Its pastiche of Into the Spider-Verse is revealed to be nothing more than window dressing.
The video store becomes something self-reflexive across the film’s three-hour running time.