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Dreyer’s “Gertrud,” like the various installments of “The Bachelor” franchise, found much of its drama basically from characters sitting on elegant sofas and talking about their relationships. “Flowers of Shanghai” achieves a similar outcome: it’s a film about sex work that features no sexual intercourse.
“You say into the boy open your eyes / When he opens his eyes and sees the light / You make him cry out. / Expressing O Blue come forth / O Blue arise / O Blue ascend / O Blue come in / I am sitting with some friends in this café.”
Considering the myriad of podcasts that encourage us to welcome brutal murderers into our earbuds each week (And exactly how eager many of us are to do so), it could be hard to imagine a time when serial killers were a truly taboo subject. In many ways, we have “The Silence of the Lambs” to thank for that paradigm change. Jonathan Demme’s film did as much to humanize depraved criminals as any bit of modern artwork, thanks in large part to some chillingly magnetic performance from Anthony Hopkins.
The outdated joke goes that it’s hard for the cannibal to make friends, and Bird’s bloody smile of a Western delivers the punchline with pieces of David Arquette and Jeremy Davies stuck between its teeth, twisting the colonialist mindset behind Manifest Destiny into a bonafide meal plan that it sums up with its opening epipgrah and then slathers all over the display screen until everyone gets their just desserts: “Take in me.” —DE
The movie was inspired by a true story in Iran and stars the particular family members who went through it. Mere days after the news item broke, Makhmalbaf turned her camera about the family and began to record them, directing them to reenact specific scenes determined by a script. The moral questions raised by such a technique are complex.
Montenegro became the first — and still only — Brazilian actor to get nominated for an Academy Award, and Salles’ two-hander reaches the sublime because de Oliveira, at his young age, summoned a powerful concoction of mixed emotions. Profoundly touching however never saccharine, Salles’ breakthrough ends with a fitting testament to The concept that some memories never fade, even as our indifferent world continues to spin forward. —CA
Seen today, steeped in nostalgia with the freedoms of a pre-handover Hong Kong, “Chungking Express” still feels new. The film’s lasting power is especially impressive while in the face of such a fast-paced world; a world in which nothing could be more useful than a concrete offer from someone willing to share the same future with you — even if that offer is published on a napkin. —DE
Still, watching Carol’s life get torn apart by an invisible, malevolent drive is discordantly soothing, as “Safe” maintains a cool and continual temperature all the way through its nightmare of a 3rd act. An unsettling tone thrums beneath the more in-camera sounds, an off-kilter hum similar to an air conditioner or white-noise machine, that invites you to sink trancelike into the slow-boiling horror of all of it.
Jane Campion doesn’t place much stock in labels — seemingly preferring to adhere for the aged Groucho Marx chestnut, “I don’t want to belong to any club that will acknowledge people like me as being a member” — and it has invested her career pursuing work that speaks to her sensibilities. Ask Campion for big clit her have views of feminism, and you also’re likely for getting an answer like the a single she gave fellow blackambush joey white sami white filmmaker Katherine Dieckmann inside of a chat for Interview Magazine back in 1992, when she was still working on “The Piano” (then known as “The Piano Lesson”): “I don’t belong to any clubs, And that i dislike club mentality of any kind, even feminism—although I do relate for the purpose and point of feminism.”
An endlessly clever exploit of your public domain, “Shakespeare in Love” regrounds the most star-crossed love story ever told by inventing a host of (very) fictional details about its development that all stem from a single truth: Even the most immortal artwork is altogether human, and an item of each of the passion and nonsense that comes with that.
Utilizing his charming curmudgeon persona in arguably the best performance of his career, Monthly bill Murray stars since the kind of man not a soul in jav guru all fairness cheering for: sensible aleck Television weatherman Phil Connors, that has never made a gig, town, or nice lady he couldn’t chop down to size. While Danny Rubin’s original script leaned more into the dark factors of what happens to Phil when he alights to Punxsutawney, PA to cover its once-a-year Groundhog Day event — with the briefest of refreshers: that he gets caught within a time loop, seemingly doomed to only ever live this Odd holiday in this uncomfortable town forever — Ramis was intent on tapping into the inherent comedy of the premise. What a good gamble.
Drifting around Vienna over a single night — the pair meet hot on a train and must part ways come morning — Jesse and Celine engage within a number of free-flowing exchanges as they wander the city’s streets.
, Justin Timberlake beautifully negotiates the bumpy pornh terrain from disapproval to acceptance to love.
From that rich premise, “Walking and Talking” churns into a characteristically lower-important but razor-sharp drama about the complexity of women’s interior lives, as the writer-director brings such deep oceans of feminine specificity to her dueling heroines (and their palpable display screen chemistry) that her attention can’t help but cascade down onto her male characters as well.