The book takes a subtle stylistic turn in its second half that might bear quasi-meta significance.
I say this with love: My father is a master of rhetoric. He is a master of rhetoric without, by his own admission, ever having mastered anything to do with rhetoric.
Greven’s analysis is fluid and detailed, while excavating exhilarating thematic linkages between all filmmakers.
Where do collective memories come from? From faded photography, and skewed reviews?
The film is riddled with nonsensically motivated and poorly thought-out characters who bear little resemblance to real human beings.
I’m partial to scores, but for purposes of discussion, I consider songs to be movie music.
Are you bored with print criticism’s general disinterest in filmmaking itself?
Scorsese, De Niro, and Paul Schrader buffs will want to check out the documentary The Plot to Kill Reagan.