Colony essentially approaches Train to Busan’s setup from a 90-degree angle.
The film compellingly positions misogyny as an unending inherited nightmare.
Ashley McKenzie’s film blossoms into a moving story about two people trapped by the institutions that they’re beholden to.
The film breaks little new ground but is at least a notable improvement on, well, The Mousetrap.
Throughout, Brett Morgen is less interested in factual biography than in eliciting a sense of the man as an artist and personality.
Lucien Castaing-Taylor and Véréna Paravel’s film is one of the supreme cinematic examinations of the body’s magnificent malleability.
In the end, Fernando León de Aranoa’s film suggests that there may not be a lot of daylight between a good boss and a true villain.
Davy Chou’s Return to Seoul quickly blooms as a study in contrasts, sublimely juxtaposing character and culture.
Kevin Smith toys with death in Clerks III as a shortcut to bring emotion to a film that otherwise has no meaningful hook.
The film is in tension with the more nuanced view that Ted Hall seemed to have of himself.
An update to Mark Cousins’s 15-part The Story of Film: An Odyssey, the film scans cinematic developments in the 21st century.
The film is about repression, an inhibition that no amount of tequila can take away.
After a while, you want to know what line of inquiry the film is pursuing—what greater paths it’s wandered to.
With expert visual precision, the film flows into each new, wild narrative wrinkle as if it were the most logical thing in the world.
Owen Kline discusses why he embraces archetypes and how he went about crafting an uproarious comedy with no overt jokes.
Julius Avery’s film, intentionally or not, exposes the political subtext of all other superhero movies.
Owen Kline’s feature-length directorial debut resoundingly commits to soulfulness.
Aly Muritiba’s film is always telling the viewer that death-ness and trans-ness bear the intimacy of Siamese sisters.
The film is a passionate exploration of how image-making is inextricable from storytelling.
Léonor Serraille’s Mother and Son is a lovely film about feminine strength that also refuses to glorify motherhood.
Cleansed of all risk and personality, the film subsides, as though with a sigh, into the reheated sauce of mediocrity.