This relentlessly cruel rejiggering makes every Evil Dead film before seem like Sunday school.
The Lost Bus may remind you of ’90s blockbusters like Dante’s Peak. But should it?
The film is a vivid meditation on human possibility in the face of fate and nature’s power.
The film’s desire to resist easy storytelling paradigms is admirable, but only up to a point.
Francis Lawrence ferociously stages King’s novella as a passion play about class solidarity.
This anthem of aspiration and struggle leaves no doubt about Coppola’s beliefs.
The film attests to a craft’s enduring importance at a time when resources for it have declined.
Jay Kelly represents the moment when Baumbach has gone fully soft.
The film is fascinated with the ways in which cinema, politics, and personal history co-mingle.
The film gracefully envelops us in the joys and confusion of feverish passion with no outlet.
No one, certainly not Diaz’s most ardent fans, will confuse Magellan for a romantic vision.
The film mines unnerving tension from the absurdity of its main character’s confinement.
Panahi’s film is a reflection of his currently fractious relationship with his homeland.
This vivid, nostalgic portrait of family life opens out into a self-reflexive study of grief.
For Marcello, the only responsible art in times of need is a responsive art.
The duo provide fascinating insight into how they understand the relationship between twins.
The film seems eager to challenge Leni Riefenstahl’s postwar self-portrayal as a “pure artist.”
The film is less a portrait of one martyred man than a mosaic of a resistant community.
In the film, pedagogy even has to share space with the carnal frisson of the dance floor.
The film effortlessly melds its sadcom properties with more predictable rom-com traditions.
One small, shrewd decision after another allows the film to sustain its naturalism to the end.