Refn discusses his love of fairy tales, falling through the rabbit hole of streaming, and more.
A portrait of the few who live off the rubbish of the affluent, Zabbaleen is richly observed and poignant.
I Can Do Bad All by Myself is as polished and eager to please audiences as it is remarkably inoffensive.
The film only thaws itself out from formulaic rigor mortis via repeated sights of cords, sutured wounds, and frostbitten fingers being severed.
Most of the best sequences in the film simply give over to footage of Gogol Bordello’s live performances.
Rashevski’s Tango is proof that mediocrity need not always be familiar.
The film is filled with good-on-paper moments that build up and slowly tighten like a knot but usually end in a whimper.
Robert Montgomery’s face was boyishly cute, even as he began to show his age in the early 40s, and his characters strategically used their cuteness.
The film possesses a restless vitality, with hard cuts juxtaposing abject brutality with pastoral tranquility and romantic longing.
Not Forgotten is a feature-length anti-tourism campaign for Mexico.
Redneck humor is alive and not so well in Skiptracers.
Whatever glamour there’s to be found here is imperfectly conveyed to the audience because of a scarcity of suitable archival material.
Writer-director Dave Boyle’s deadly comedy peaks early with a broad lampoon of samurai movies.
For his remake of Beyond a Reasonable Doubt, Peter Hyams ratchets up the sleek car-commercial flashiness.
The film starts bleakly and just gets bleaker, and as it progresses these stylistic decisions start to feel more and more oppressive.
A relic of WWII homefront propaganda where the call to arms ultimately overwhelms its star-driven romance.
A nagging sense of incompletion haunts 9, Shane Acker’s feature-length expansion of his Oscar-nominated 2004 short.
Crude is both a tribute to human-rights tenacity and a sobering account of the multinational-Moloch greed that can keep justice in limbo.
No Impact Man doesn’t soft-pedal the fact that the calculated, consciousness-raising media event it chronicles is a conceptual stunt.
This is a laborious bit of sci-fi grimness that dully updates The Running Man for the 21st century.
Nearly two decades after its release, the film’s crafty auto-didacticism and fevered indecisiveness are still attention-yanking.