For its 27th edition, the festival presented 20 features and six short films over five days.
It’s no surprise that Madonna’s new show comes off not unlike an act of self-defense.
Frankly, Róisín Murphy ought to be bigger in the United States than she is.
Agnès Jaoui’s Let It Rain is the kind of film it’s hard not to be snotty about.
This year’s edition seems most conspicuous for not bearing the teeth marks of Dario’s daughter Asia.
Appaloosa is horseshit, mostly.
The following interview is definitive proof that sometimes it does indeed pay to dream.
In a medium that devours beauty so easily, it’s talent that’s kept Ludivine Sagnier going.
Though we discussed everything from spirituality to positive con artistry, the subject of living in Chelsea with an albino skunk never came up.
Surprisingly, the audience was the most curious character of the weekend.
Oshii, Miyazaki, and Kon.
Breillat discusses literary adaptations, Argento’s formidable force, and French cinema’s shortage of matinee idols.
Sara Taksler and Naomi Greenfield are an inspiration for aspiring indie filmmakers.
Though he says otherwise, it’s hard to think of an American songwriter as admired by fans and critics as Berman.
Sadly, the singer doesn’t have much of a live presence, at least in the sense that you frequently forget she’s even on stage.
Zack Winestine’s Caravan/Prague is a first person documentary account of a 500-mile bicycle caravan across Europe.
You can tell a lot about a film festival from its opening-night selection.
Pointing out that her sister is one of her backup dancers, Badu was often prone to sitting back—legs crossed, head bopping—and allowing others to hog her spotlight.
Her second act is comprised of bucketfuls of well-earned praise from the indie sect and lots of love from metropolitan gays in the know.
He’s endlessly alert and inquisitive behind the camera, a unique combination of detective, storyteller and philosopher.
Dan Bejar has encrypted his creations to the point that their significance is entirely his to bear.