The film is naïvely entranced by those incidents in life that are perhaps not worth thinking about.
Todd Solondz is sensitive to criticism, a fear he hypocritically lays bare throughout Storytelling.
Mulholland Drive is a haunting, selfish masterpiece that literalizes the theory of surrealism as perpetual dream state.
Catherine Breillat’s film is a startling vision of the prickly crawlspace between innocence and sexual awakening.
Less feel-good than Children of Heaven and less picturesque than The Color of Paradise, the film is powerfully lucid.
It’s Bruce Weber’s Abercrombie & Fitch fantasies that reign supreme here.
Shōhei Imamura’s film is a delirious ode to the female orgasm.
Barry Levinson’s latest is shamelessly devoid of subtext.
This South Korean thriller-chiller is as shamelessly predictable as it is memorably grim.
The film solidifies Scott Hicks’s rank as one of Hollywood’s most visually evocative power-players.
Old school meets new school at the festival, where a formidable faction of Nouvelle Vague auteurs and their upstarts overwhelm the program.
The film works both as art-house spooker and political allegory.
The lightweight British import Born Romantic is harmless yet completely forgettable.
Lucrecia Martel’s La Ciénaga is a stunning affront to bourgeois complacency.
The film is a Freud for Dummies journey into mind-cracking.
The film remains one of the most twisted evocations of godliness gone awry.
So bad it’s good, Glitter springs eternal.
François Ozon did this kind of thing better with his Criminal Lovers.
The only thing it gets right is that the P.R. flack will oftentimes forgo human decency while hawking and defending their shoddy products.
Audition plays out like a comfy companion piece to Shall We Dance? before evolving into a torturous freakshow not unlike Baise-moi.