The film’s intelligence is provocative and playful.
Im’s humanism is unmistakable but his recollection of Ohwon’s life feels cold at times.
The film is possibly Kiarostami’s most rigorous to date.
That the film arrives stateside with the full censure of the Vatican more or less confirms Peter Mullan’s job-well-done.
The New York Film Festival turns 40 this year with more style and grace than its Toronto and Cannes counterparts.
Its earnest and undeniably tender touch couldn’t have come at a better time.
Nick Broomfield reveals an ironic manifestation of institutionalized slavery that ties a black-owned record label with a white-empowered police force.
Just as strong then as the Hermitage’s smell of antiquity is the possibility of liberation.
The film’s ultra-realism echoes Welcome to Sarajevo, except Paul Greengrass wrings more naturalistic performances from his actors.
Everyone’s shit hits the fan on cue and the film never really recovers from the rote sitcom wind-down, Goldie Hawn’s lively spirit and nasty potty mouth makes it all easier to swallow.