The film suggests David Lynch’s masterful mindfuck Inland Empire for the influencer set.
The emphasis on locations is where Claire Denis begins to rear her creative head.
The film was seemingly developed at the David Mamet Institute for Twist-Laden Salesmen Dramas.
At least the film’s (predictable) final twist provides the sort of gender disorder befitting naughty-minded giallo.
Ten Canoes is more homily than film, an educational exaltation of Australia’s Aboriginal past.
The film is an inventory of movie and music references as relentless and explicit as Grindhouse.
The film feels redundant of documentaries like Who Gets to Call It Art? that have been all the rage in the past few years.
The life and death of the first American soldier killed in Iraq complicates the ongoing debate on illegal immigration.
Hilary Brougher’s second feature film wants to shatter stereotypes about baby killing.
September Dawn is the year’s first honest-to-goodness exploitation flick.
After the vaporous whimsy of Avenue Montaigne and now the drippy antics of The Valet, Paris really could use more Gaspar Noé leather infernos.
In Paris Je T’aime, 18 renowned directors contribute star-studded vignettes about amour, each set in a different Parisian neighborhood.
Waitress suggests an SNL alum’s reinterpretation of the TV show Alice.
Gracie’s only achievement is technical, yet it has nothing to do with creative merit.
The film’s overriding impression is that of being lectured on the morality and fakery of reality television by Simon Cowell…or a WWE wrestler.
Crazy Love has a tabloid story to kill for, and a basic nonfiction form to snooze over.
The world of Thieves Like Us is beautiful and strange, in all its stunning everydayness.
The film is simultaneously an act of revisionism as well as a parody of then-revitalizing neo-noir.
Jon Kasdan’s ungainly film is, finally, only grounded in smarmy sensitive-guy fantasy.
At a mere 80 minutes, Vacancy is taut, claustrophobic, and brutally lean.
Phantasm’s big scares work because they seemingly continue to emerge from a writer’s feverish subconscious.