The film understands that historical truth and personal memory are inseparable.
Steeped in the lyrical fatalism of that last great decade for the western, the ‘70s, Andrew Dominik’s film owes a debt to myriad spiritual ancestors.
Carlos Saura’s hybridization of cinematic and musical techniques is an orgy for the eyes and ears.
The blarney isn’t the only thing that’s thick in writer-director Brad Gann’s Black Irish.
By most accounts, this year’s New York Film Festival is one of the strongest in years.
The Japanese legal system comes under intense scrutiny in I Just Didn’t Do It.
A thorough adaptation of Lynn H. Nicholas’s book, The Rape of Europa scrupulously details a Nazi practice usually relegated to historical footnotes.
It isn’t until you’ve been granted full press access at the Toronto Film Festival that you realize this really is a people’s festival. I
Oliver Stone’s attack on the excesses of the Me Decade could easily be dubbed Mr. Smith Goes to Wall Street.
The film is riddled with nonsensically motivated and poorly thought-out characters who bear little resemblance to real human beings.
Diary of the Dead gleefully engages with themes of spectatorship and subjectivity.
Who would deny that the revival of Charles Burnett’s career has been the major film event of the year?
If Pierce’s unvoiced rage is the heartache of black America, her hope is its spirit.
What so incensed McCarthy?
Mr. Woodcock knows lots of verbs that mean “having sex” but screws up virtually all opportunities for humor.
A fevered yet clinical study of jealousy, Leave Her to Heaven is probably John M. Stahl’s best-known film.
Josef von Sternberg’s film is a fascinating early cornerstone of both the director’s worldview and the gangster genre.
The film’s Gut-Buster-to-Forehead-Slapper ratio is relatively even.
Did Anton Corbijn shoot his load with his early work for Propaganda, David Sylvian, Echo and the Bunneymen, and Depeche Mode?
Motivations are constantly being re-examined in the film, though Ira Sachs never privileges one point of view over another.
Silk has superficial beauty but no soul.