The festival’s greatest singularity is two-fold: its lack of pretense and judicious curatorial eye.
Like so many of Alfred Hitchcock’s movies, Lifeboat is a deeply Catholic work.
James Cameron’s film is as perverse as it is completely guileless.
The film aims for the humor and political sensitivity of Catch-22 but trips and falls on its adolescent head in the process.
The film is a silly, self-reflexive lark oozing spitfire sarcasm and nonchalant cool.
Throughout, a convincingly distraught Felicity Huffman largely refuses to succumb to the film’s facileness.
The Fly might be Cronenberg’s most direct horror film ever.
Dreamer loses to Seabiscuit by a nose in the race for most inane underhorse, err, underdog crowd-pleaser in recent years.
The predictably heavy metal-scored film’s primary directive is to recreate the mindless mayhem of its joystick-controlled roots.
Bee Season’s mysticism casts an incredibly cold, literal-minded spell.
The film seems to have been made so that writer-director Ben Younger can shoot all of his favorite sites in New York City.
It’s a comic book that acts like most of its own readers probably would if they were thrown into the same situation.
North Country turns on itself like some rabid animal with its leg caught in a bear trap.
Stay is a tricked-out look at mental crisis.
Icíar Bollaín’s Goya-winning film approaches the horror of domestic abuse from a uniquely critical angle.
The film is so aesthetically corrupt that it makes Michael Bay’s The Island look like a Bazinian tract by comparison.
Anand Tucker’s film assumes a romantic aesthetic best described as “tasteful sterility.”
Sans John Carpenter’s gorgeous widescreen cinematography or eerily unhurried pacing, it proves successful only at blowing.
Elizabethtown is Garden State without the matching clothes and wallpaper.
This metaphorical gothic fable about female maturation is pregnant with birth, menstruation, and orgasmic symbolism.
Atom Egoyan’s Where the Truth Lies promises more than it finally delivers.