Steven Soderbergh’s immensely anticipated Che trains a cool head and a sharp eye on Che Guevara.
In Synecdoche, New York, Charlie Kaufman indulges all his thematic quirks like a dieting matron lunging at a box of bonbons.
Atom Egoyan’s latest finds the director back in Canadian Traumaland after his Hollywood sojourn in Where the Truth Lies.
The ringside clashes, as befits the director of Requiem for a Dream, remain baroque visions of corporeal abuse.
Blindness feels less like a metaphor for urban isolation than just a zombie movie in which the zombies decided not to show up.
Fraternal auteurs aren’t having much critical support this year.
Appaloosa is horseshit, mostly.
Fears of The Sky Crawlers being overcome with Western tropes are dispelled as soon as Oshii Mamoru’s trademark, oddly grave pet beagle waddles on screen.
It isn’t until you’ve been granted full press access at the Toronto Film Festival that you realize this really is a people’s festival. I
Diary of the Dead gleefully engages with themes of spectatorship and subjectivity.
Motivations are constantly being re-examined in the film, though Ira Sachs never privileges one point of view over another.
The film is an eye-popping pageant parade masquerading as rapturous religious art.
Save for Silent Light’s bookend sequences, Reygadas works mainly in the implicative margins.
Argento’s triumph comes in fusing two schools of cinema-thought together, cranking the gore and monster quotient up to 11.
The Man From London is a multifaceted apotheosis.
Hell, the mood was so sedate that Sean Penn and Russell Crowe were even chipper, the latter happily chatting up fans in the street.
When scurrying about film festivals, even non-juried ones like the Toronto International Film Festival, it’s best to keep your eyes on the prize.
Two thousand and five will go down in the festival’s history as the year when the movies got a little crappier and the celebrities got a little crabbier.