Refn discusses his love of fairy tales, falling through the rabbit hole of streaming, and more.
Yaji and Kita: The Midnight Pilgrims is a mashup of aesthetic sensibilities and attitudes old and new.
The retrospective’s Sunday screenings kick off with Rivette’s 1966 episode of Cinéastes, de notre temps, which profiles Jean Renoir.
As early festival rumblings suggested and the final product confirms, you’re either with The Fountain or you’re against it.
The fact that there even is a Tenacious D in the Pick of Destiny comes as something of a miracle.
The film repackages The Ground Truth into a laughably clichéd, melodramatic, Oscar-courting prestige pic.
The fine music by the Sea and Cake doesn’t jive with the story’s Persona-like philosophical pretenses.
Remarkably, Stromboli doesn’t advocate the rejection of caution for passion.
It might all be unwatchable if it weren’t for Will Ferrell.
Casino Royale is one of the good ones, and not just for the way it wittily recontextualizes several series touchstones.
Nothing less than a miracle is needed to rouse Ingrid Bergman’s characters out of their spiritual stupor, and Rossellini provides it.
It’s a cliché to be among the hordes who confess to being confounded by all the praise heaped on this movie.
Courtesy of Catherine Hardwicke, the Nativity has become the most boring story ever told.
Flannel Pajamas details a love affair whose insightfulness slightly outweighs its sluggishness.
Happy Feet is a film of uncanny political resonance.
Alright, the first column seems to have gone fairly well. An observation though: not enough conflict. We’re in agreement on far too much.
Breaking and Entering plays out like a softer, more cuddly version of Michael Haneke’s Caché.
More often than not, this long-winded fable functions as a squishy, supernatural serving of Chicken Soup for the Soul.
The first of three essays written by House Next Door contributors for the Reverse Shot Brian De Palma symposium.
A straightforward ghost story whose nonsensicality—unlike most J-horror thrillers—doesn’t seem to be intentional.
Tom Tykwer’s Perfume stinks.