The Crime Is Mine draws on the same giddily rules-trampling pre-war mood as Chicago.
Rivette’s beguiling, minor-key manor mystery receives a solid Blu-ray release.
François Ozon’s film is a classically humanist illustration of a percolating controversy.
Throughout the film, Lucas Belvaux sidelines the emotional textures that might complicate all his sermonizing.
Christophe Gans’s telling of Beauty and the Beast abounds in impersonal and unsatisfying sumptuousness.
This set of two essential films is light on meaningful supplements, but high on quality cinema.
Kino’s Blu-ray wisely doesn’t attempt to explain its layers with copious extras, leaving the viewer to tease out the director’s final head game.
The film isn’t really fooling anyone into feeling doom-laden suspense (Paris, after all, is still standing), but the principal performers sell the momentousness of the drama.
Alain Resnais’s final film dares to push through the ghosts that inhabit the present.
A smart comedy about the bourgeoisie’s discomfort with anything that it can’t recognize as itself.
The film, a layered, character-driven drama with the aura of a sunny Venetian noir, never quite bursts into full-blown mayhem.
The film is occasionally engaging in its free-wheeling determination to please its maker.
Yes, the heart has its reasons.
Jean-Pierre Jeunet’s latest exalts mouse trap-style set pieces as a be-all-end-all.
Wild Grass was the zippy standard bearer for the spirit of “there’s nothing you can’t do.”
Alain Resnais’s Wild Grass is cute stuff—maybe too cute.
Hitchcock’s “Wrong Man” scenario gets an invigorating French update in Tell No One.
Perennial modernist Alain Resnais enters old-man-cinema territory with grace and style.
At first coming off as a step backward for Resnais, the theatricality of Mélo becomes a different sort of experimentalism.
Love on the Ground is the kind of French-farcical roundelay that Gallic cinema is frequently accused of producing en masse.