Dario Argento’s films are like stained glass windows ready to shatter and slice the unsuspecting spectator.
Only Michele Soavi has ever come close to matching the breathtaking awe of a hyper-stylized Argento set piece.
Showtime is impossibly lightweight for TV satire.
Blade II is gooey and dank, yet del Toro recognizes the allure of the original’s techno pulse.
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.