Reviews
Co-director Keith Fulton recently told indieWIRE that the greatest obstacle for Brothers of the Head was marketing it, which is a real knee-slapper.
Wisely, director/editor/cinematographer Matt Mahurin focuses much of his attention on the food in his laidback, downtown New York restaurant documentary I Like Killing Flies.
Though Cemetery Man is, on the whole, a very funny movie—and that’s all I usually ask—I have watched it to the point where most of its gags have worn dull, and I’m still not tired of it.
After this rampage, Allen John almost freezes to death, but for the grace of sexual healing—the film’s finale, at least in its truncated form, is Rosalee, draping herself over Allen John’s bare, ice-rimed chest to bring him to, a resurrection enacted through the pulse of flesh.
Stephens’s balls-out sex comedy may be scattershot, but as everyone by now must know, the see-what-sticks approach comes with the territory.
Maybe this hypothetical cinephile begins to get sweaty-palmed at the idea of these movies inhabiting a Hawksian zone of scaled-down performances against a loud genre background, buddy-buddy female characters, unforced back-and-forth interaction among members of a community....
Hathaway, and everyone who surrounds her (sorry, Adrian Grenier; blame the writing), is pretty much a snooze, and it’s left to Streep to pick up the slack, by channeling not Bette Davis but a Best of Everything-style Joan Crawford.
Captain Jack was the ultimate personification of the strange behavioral mannerisms, forceful charisma, and gender ambiguity that make Depp one of our most peculiar and tantalizing male stars.
A noirish late-period corker released through borderline-B Republic, the movie boasts at least a handful of extended passages featuring what we connoisseurs like to call shit-hot filmmaking.
Having acquired Assayas’s latest film not long after its star, Maggie Cheung, very justifiably won Best Actress at Cannes 2004 for her performance in it, Palm Pictures promptly did absolutely nothing with Clean for nearly two years.
With John Lasseter and Joe Ranft’s Cars, the ever-growing commercial imperatives required to feed the beast that is Pixar have overwhelmed any sense of responsibility towards their audience.
The chance of there ever being a true “director's cut” has been precisely nil since the director’s death in 1985, but Criterion has done as much as anyone could have possibly hoped in collating what's out there and presenting it in a hefty three-disc, one-novel set.
Shot for Fox during noir’s gestation period in 1941, I Wake Up Screaming starts with a silhouette-and-silky smoke backroom interrogation, then quickly abandons such squalid climes for settings more MGM than Warners.