Barrio Triste relies on a mood of disaffected melancholy, if without a clear direction.
Jean-Dominique Bauby’s story is one of struggle and perseverance.
What a pity that Lady and the Tramp had infinitely more chemistry.
Heddy Honigmann’s documentary Forever is enlightening without being demystifying.
I see now why lists can sometimes cause such headaches.
The Hottest State is thoroughly infused with its creator’s pretentious indie-bohemian persona.
Fierce People is structured around the type of analogy that makes one pine for total sensory failure.
Verhoeven’s film set the tone for much of the Dutch auteur’s career in America.
Don’t be fooled by the titular reference to Jacques Tati’s classic, droll M. Hulot’s Holiday.
December Boys comes at you like Helen Hunt in the 1982 Afterschool Special Desperate Lives.
Fuck the Ides of March.
Skid Row too often comes to feel like a vanity project.
Zhang Yang’s film knows a thing or two about child-parent dynamics.
It’s a western that, at the moment of truth, too closely remakes when what was truly necessary was reinvention.
Oliver Hirschbiegel seemingly rises to the task of coloring this tale with the necessary moral shades and silent fears of our Big Brother times.
Would that Meagan's Law could protect us from Protagonist, another weirdly hermetic documentary exercise from the director of In the Realm of the Unreal.
Is this all there is to mainstream indie filmmaking?
At what cost, naturalism?
Ryan Reynolds may not be a demigod, much less a full-fledged deity, but he plays one to sterling effect in The Nines.
Movies work by building and releasing tension, a pattern demonstrated more nakedly in the musical than in nearly any other genre.
A seamless story about memory and fantasy blurring together, Cría Cuervos is unquestionably Carlos Saura’s greatest film.