These films are generous reminders that cinema isn’t always about diagnosing global problems.
It’s exciting as well as a little nerve-wracking that Hou Hsiao-hsien’s latest feature offers many firsts in his career.
The last third’s attempt to frame the drama as King Lear-level tragedy plays as an unnecessary reach.
An inconsequential dramatization of a consequential event, Robert Sarkies’s film suggests a Folgers Crystals commercial with a body count.
The devices that José Luis Guerín uses to probe your consciousness are all cinematic: picture and sound.
This expertly executed but hollow exercise in imaginative biography reveals next to nothing about Bob Dylan.
José Luis Guerín’s sensualist delight is an immaculate expression of the thrill of the hunt.
It’s futile to harp on the smugness of Noah Baumbach’s characters when Noah Baumbach’s writing is the problem.
It’s tempting to call the new Sleuth a soulless remake, but that would imply that the original had a soul.
Asia Argento gives Catherine Breillat’s latest its pulse.
For better or worse, the film passes along with the fey twilight of a late Manoel de Oliveira film.
The Devil would make for maudlin, depressing viewing if every scene didn’t feel like explosions were being set off.
Murray Lerner’s coup is photographing Dylan with the same informal quality as the singer-songwriter’s ingenious arsenal of words.
It’s when Desert Bayou examines the turgid boundaries between race and class that it is most effective.
True to their reputation for collapsing taboos, the Farrellys have reliably injected hitherto verboten crudity into the cinematic bloodstream.
Brian De Palma’s paradoxical take on the occupation of Iraq is as blatant as an open sore yet swathed in layers of formalist irony.
The Jungle Book may be Disney’s greatest Mouse House party, at least up until the moment Mowgli reaches the perimeter of the Man Village.
Like some demented cross between a Norman Rockwell painting and an Eli Roth film.
The way Elizabeth: The Golden Age tells it, the Spanish Armada’s defeat by the British Empire was the orgasm The Virgin Queen never had.
Is there anything more to see, anything left to say about Blade Runner?
Both films offer pleasurable perversities lying in the cracks of Cathay Studios’s brave new world.