Refn discusses his love of fairy tales, falling through the rabbit hole of streaming, and more.
Visions of demented lyricism giddily punch through Bad Lieutenant: Port of Call New Orleans’s hack-policier surface.
Claire Denis’s wide scope on life means there’s social context to the interpersonal dynamics, both through other lives glimpsed and everyday postcolonial politics.
The film grounds its story’s food frenzy and hysteria with a heartfelt wonderment.
After a long day at the Toronto Film Festival, Diablo Cody called me up to talk about the movie and her continuing efforts to process unexpected fame.
With The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus, Terry Gilliam gets his Fellini freak on.
Von Trier is a compulsive button-pusher in the battle of the sexes, the battle of political correctness, the battle of cinema as playground of ideas.
The film is on shaky ground when trying to adopt slasher conventions, and less so when adhering to traditional body-horror tropes.
M*A*S*H is a good dint lower than its reputation.
Binoche has descended on Brooklyn’s Academy of Music with a full-blown, Renaissance woman vengeance.
The film’s “It’s a small world” plotting is sunk by Cédric Klapisch’s bland artistry and dull insights into his milieu.
It chooses not to follow the money but one man’s evolution in the pursuit of principle.
Humorless and sanctimonious, Burning Plain groans with shoddy ironies and overbearing serendipity.
The series’s story is no less complicated, and it shows from the amount of plot You Are (Not) Alone crams into 98 minutes.
As in publishing, the alarmist polemic has become its own documentary subgenre, and Fuel is merely its latest entrant.
A portrait of the artist as seen through his own words and actions, the documentary stays close to its subject.
Telluride effectively plays two roles within the film festival economy.
Jane Campion’s artistry recalls the wonky, unconventional, and dreamlike beauty of Keats’s verses but also the meticulous stitching of a hem.
The White Ribbon suggests a Children of the Corn prequel played as rigid thesis.
In Antichrist, there’s no anchor to the cataract of malevolent images other than Lars von Trier’s own crawling neuroses.
Sorority Row is a more estrogen-fueled version of I Know What You Did Last Summer.