Raimi’s film still feels like the punchiest horror flick this side of a Dario Argento giallo.
It demonstrates director Claire Denis’s signature obsession with the human body, cultural rifts and the permissions of sex.
Arguably Lynch’s most literal-minded creation, the film is also his most scatterbrained.
Marcel Carné‘s France, unlike the fiddle-dee-dee of Victor Fleming’s cotton pickin’ South, is a poetic realist’s wonderland.
Like Slackers, Super Troopers, and last year’s Wet Hot American Summer, Van Wilder brings to mind the gross-out yarns of yesteryear.
Not since Magnolia has a film been so drunk on celebrity dick as 40 Days and 40 Nights.
Dario Argento’s fascination with the subconscious reaches a ridiculous low here.