Mysteries of Lisbon plays as an endlessly compelling juggling act.
Like most omnibus movies, Revolución is uneven and sometimes underdeveloped.
Old Cats is a clear-eyed, empathetic understanding of the agonies of aging.
Formally, Kelly Reichardt’s fourth feature is some kind of masterpiece.
The characters and motivations are often muddy, but the message is always clear in We Are What We Are.
Another Year is a tale of haves and have-nots—those who are touched by grace and those who are not.
Within Ruhr’s seven stationary shots, Benning tries to capture a whole world.
The rhythm of the gym dictates the rhythm of the film.
Film is a phantom, but a living one.
The film breathes with the intimacy of slow and purposefully written correspondence between two friends and confidants.
Just about everyone plays second fiddle to the costumes and set design that are Taymor’s trademark.
Souvenir, Souvenir, with its sharp, rapid edits between faces and bursts of sudden color, delights in dissolving people over animals and vice versa.
A film like Certified Copy explodes truisms about acting.
Ferguson’s approach mostly focuses on facts, expert opinions, concise explanations of complex concepts, and tough probing of authority figures.
If there is a thread running through some of this year’s festival, it is the acceptance of the enigmatic in human beings.
It’s official, say critics: Hong Sang-soo’s repeating himself.
The gift my parents’ breakup gave me was that it made me a moviegoer.
Silent Souls is a ghost story, with flashbacks literally bringing the dead back to life.
The payoff is too light on revelation or insight to justify the skillful, fairly involving, tension-filled buildup.
And the prize for most ironic title at the New York Film Festival goes to…My Joy.