The film again proves that Lanthimos is a skilled director of blunt strangeness and surreality.
To Live and Die in L.A. exhibits a remarkable degree of kineticism.
Anderson moves even closer to cultural curation and further from sustained storytelling.
Whether or not Vasilis Katsoupis’s film achieves escape velocity from genre limitations though overt sociopolitical commentary is questionable.
Robert Eggers’s The Northman doesn’t lack for blood and guts, but it doesn’t play enough in the well of the weird.
There’s no attempt to hide that the film is pure fan service, a greatest-hits mashup of Spider-Man’s cinematic legacy.
Guillermo del Toro reimagines an agonizing, still shocking noir as an exhibit in a wax museum.
Paul Schrader’s film grows more heated and crazed as the chaos of the past bleeds into a repressed present.
Twelve Minutes feels like Something Awful copypasta wearing the skin of an Ibsen play.
Wes Anderson’s film is an often fascinating, wondrous exercise in complex narration and visual composition.
The film could be taken as an intentional travesty of the superhero genre, if only it weren’t so tortuously tedious.
Abel Ferrara’s film is about that precise feeling of living with an itch unscratched.
The disc perhaps definitively contextualizes the moral urgency of the film’s intricate aesthetic.
Abel Ferrara doesn’t require traditional dream logic, as his grasp of the nitty-gritty quotidian of longing is inherently uncanny.
The film revives many noir touchstones, but never the throbbing unease that courses through the classics of the genre.
Robert Eggers loosens the noose of veracity just enough to allow for so much absurdism to peek through.
Often divertingly colorful and busy to a fault, Aquaman seems to dare us to mock the world of comics’ most risible superhero.
Shout! Factory outfits David Lynch’s worst film with a competent yet weirdly retro Blu-ray that squanders the possibilities of the medium.
At Eternity’s Gate is both a fitting tribute to an artist who rebuffed conventional painting techniques, and a disappointingly self-indulgent exercise.
Natalie Portman plays the older Celeste like a car revving in first gear, deafeningly loud but scarcely moving.