Jean-Stéphane Sauvaire’s Asphalt City is less a film than a guttersnipe’s wallow.
It’s only a matter of time before the woman with the penis for a nose ends up penetrating the woman with the hole in her trachea.
The film’s theme is less the simplicity of religion than the religiosity of simplicity.
It almost demands to be watched with the sound turned off and set to a Philip Glass score.
Robert Aldrich’s work on Baby Jane was already a study in hysteria, and his style for Charlotte is, if anything, even more ornate.
There’s a lot of plot surrounding the main characters, even in the non-padded, non-epic-length 94-minute cut.
Save for its silly doozy of an ending, it’s all very boring and ridiculous.
Ousmane Sembène is clearly at his best when trusting in cinema’s powers of observation.
The film is perhaps best epitomized by an early carnival set piece in which the camera twirls round and round on a whirligig.
Jay Chandrasekhar’s film is at least a loyal dog.
Hell, I’ve seen better period detail on Oliver Beene.
Even as the casting goes against convention, Don and Jarmusch never sufficiently look past the clichés of these roles .
Follow the Fleet is a problematic but rewarding Fred Astaire/Ginger Rogers film.
The pain of Swing Time lies in the apotheosis of its dances.
Viewed objectively, the partnership of Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers shouldn’t have worked.
To call Holly Woodlawn’s performance one of the very greatest in all of cinema would be an understatement.
Spanish auteur Álex de la Iglesia continues to show absolutely no signs of reconciling his dramatic and comedic impulses.
Marcos Siega’s hackneyed, by-the-books action-comedy deserves a dunce cap.
For filmmaker Simone Bitton, Israel’s security fence is a symbolic representation of her own divided identity as both Jew and Arab.
It would be pure absurdism if Akerman’s detached logic didn’t make so much sense.
The film proves that Mormonism and makeup-adorned punk rock aren’t oil and water entities.