The snapshots of the painstaking task of translation are filtered through the delicate framing of its subjects and the worlds they inhabit.
Terrence Malick’s juxtaposition of the beautiful and grotesque captures life as a Felliniesque carnival, at once sad and life-affirming.
That Wasn’t Me is devoid of the snarky arrogance that defines this category’s other recent inexcusable winners.
There’s a deal we make, we Lost fans and appreciators.