There’s something undeniably special about viewing silent films at the Castro.
It’s silly to complain about anything when spending time in the company of Pedro Almodóvar, Jerzy Skolimowski, and Wim Wenders.
Polytechniques hemorrhaging atmosphere of dread and oncoming violence creates a space of inescapable soul-sick horror.
Chabrol, Depardieu, murder, family quarreling—all seemingly wonderful elements that, when put together, should be engaging and fascinating.
For a film that explores the realms of the avant-garde, or anti-art, (Untitled) is drudgingly conventional in narrative and structure.