Let’s take it for what it’s worth: a delightful, feel-good movie by any measure.
It’s an inherently compelling story, so it’s surprising that there have been no feature-length documentaries made on the subject before.
The unqualified strength of Raising Renee is Beverly McIver.
Who was Jack Smith? A question lodged at numerous parties I’ve recently attended.
Few nonfiction films so carefully adhere to the classic challenge of three-act structure than I Will Marry the Whole Village.
Guilty Pleasures is a movie about fantasy: creating it, living in it, and learning its limitations.
The human comedy that takes place within the cramped confines of huts is as rich as any found in a Herzog documentary.
Religion is a very difficult subject to make a film about.
Make Some Noise” is your archetypal Beastie Boys tune.
Leave it to Fucked Up to illustrate so neatly that accessibility doesn’t have to herald the loss of credibility.
As singer-songwriters go, Dan Bejar is a case study of ironic distance.
The primary tactic in Snyder’s repertoire is decontextualization.
Leacock was a towering figure in the history of documentary.
Submitting Surviving the Game for the White Elephant blogathon is like giving an unwieldy lump of coal to a child on Christmas day.
Rose’s designs placed a strong emphasis on the silhouette.
A frothy fantasy dressed up as a quirky character study, Copacabana is a mishmash of mismatched parts that left me feeling a little queasy.
“Brick By Brick” is a promising first piece in Arctic Monkeys’ “vintage” jigsaw.
The kids are all right, but none of them has the charisma or self-confidence to hijack the meandering narrative.
Once Nora Ephron ditches the whole social impetus of her remake, the movie settles in to a lovely rhythm.
The triumph of films like this is the triumph of cowardice, complacency, and stealth conformity.