Laurie Simmons isn’t so much creating art as a means to explore cinema’s effect on identity as she is conducting an act of indulgence.
The film’s hopscotching-in-time structure, informed by specific remembrances of Chavela Vargas’s life, is refreshingly unconventional.
Throughout, Christopher Doyle acknowledges that time and reality are often marked by a slippery subjectivity.
Given all its clumsily executed genre detours and tonal fluctuations, Rebecca Zlutowski’s film suggests an amateur juggling act.
Amnesia ultimately delivers rich insights about its main characters’ relationship to their backgrounds.
At its most honest, the film wrestles with the reluctance or unwillingness of women to fulfill ostensibly requisite roles.
It plays like one of the Grateful Dead’s seminal concerts: protracted and digressive, yet intricate in its design.
The film’s default mode is to lazily skewer suburbanites as cartoonishly privileged yuppies.
Throughout, the content and tenor of certain stories told by Mick Rock ambitiously inform the film’s style.
The faces in Logan Sandler’s film, like the landscapes of the paradise setting, only convey an empty sort of ambiguity.
The film’s jarring shifts in tone reflect the untidy side of life that the three main characters find themselves in.
Zhang Dalei’s film is single-mindedly devoted to evoking the way a pre-adult mind compartmentalizes the world.
The documentary advances its cause through an intimately diaristic depiction of hard work done well.
Jacques Perrin and Jacques Cluzaud’s Seasons is a nature documentary that reveals itself as a story of tragic usurpation.
Aaron Paul possesses an innate everyman quality that lends itself well to writer-director Zack Whedon’s film.
Linas Phillips’s contrived sense of follow-through betrays the truthfulness of his initial characterizations.
It ends on a muted whimper of a note that one doesn’t expect given that the film’s subject is such an immensely entertaining raconteur.
The film gives the impression of being transmitted from someone’s memory, or a journal comprised of unorganized entries.
Casey Tebo’s Happy Birthday plays like it was written by a bro who just discovered Quentin Tarantino’s early films.
Mirai Konishi’s documentary inevitably reveals itself to be an elaborate infomercial for Westerners.