Reviews
It’s a humble complacency that feels missing from most of Woody’s work, which does view wealth and privilege with the same love-hate relationship as Radio Days but also usually aligns itself with the upper-class Manhattan that Woody ascended to.
Coming right after the drenched-in-scandal Husbands and Wives surprised the mainstream movie world by employing jittery, handheld camerawork, Murder Mystery used the same shaky-cam for a completely different effect, lending the film’s intricate and silly crime-caper plot a scatterbrained immediacy.
Doomed to disappear before it even sees the light of day, Children of Men seems the exact opposite of what the public wants to see during the holidays.
Literally digging their own graves, the Imperial Army soldiers witnessed in the elegiac Clint Eastwood film Letters from Iwo Jima, bring new meaning to the term walking dead.
These disparate events are canalized by Marker's mind, finely calibrated as always to detect obscure frequencies, omens, and so on, creating a baggy personal commentary on the resurgence of street-level activism in contemporary France.
As with his 2001 film The Devil’s Backbone, del Toro uses the war as a glib backdrop to give weight to his already leaden flights of imagination, and its use here is even more insultingly superficial.
The retreat from a fraught and unpleasant reality is certainly a motivation for Leaud’s regressive behavior, yet it’s also commingled with Rivette’s attempt to reclaim, street by street, and corner by corner, an understanding of Paris, a city that has become alien in the wake of the era’s fraught politics.
Clocking in at a shade over twelve and a half hours, Jacques Rivette’s behemoth certainly is daunting for all the reasons one might expect, but then again not: unlike Bela Tarr’s seven-hour Sátántangó, the film is not intended to be consumed in a single sitting.
Paris Belongs to Us would make a terrific title for a study on the French New Wave in summarizing that movement’s cultural and artistic ascendancy in the late Fifties and early Sixties if it weren’t for two slight problems . . .
Richard Linklater’s Fast Food Nation isn’t technically a horror film, but it’s brought me the closest I’ve come to nauseated dread at the movies this year.
It may seem cynical to interpret a film’s attempt at emotional involvement and narrative intensity—for an astonishingly long amount of screen time without the benefit of action scenes—as good business sense, but the setpiece mentality of the Bond series has always encouraged a compartmentalized appraisal of its virtues.
Like Godard, Rivette works like an analytical reverse engineer, picking apart the cinema and leaving its part strewn about.
It’s a survey of the current culture: big, sprawling, and endlessly frightening, told via the minutiae of everyday life, as it’s lived in one Nowheresville Colorado town.
The last time, you may recall, that Paul Weitz made a film whose title was prefixed with “American”—American Pie—the patriotic staple in question got famously fucked. So it’s a fair question: Does his newest offering similarly stick it to that still-potent idea of the American Dream?