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 impact: it’s a film about sexual intercourse work that features no sexual intercourse.
The Altman-esque ensemble method of creating a story around a particular event (in this situation, the last day of high school) had been done before, although not quite like this. There was a great deal of ’70s nostalgia from the ’90s, but Linklater’s “Slacker” followup is more than just a stylistic homage; the big cast of characters are made to feel so acquainted that audiences are essentially just hanging out with them for 100 minutes.
Considering the myriad of podcasts that really encourage us to welcome brutal murderers into our earbuds each week (and how eager many of us are to take action), it might be hard to imagine a time when serial killers were a truly taboo subject. In many ways, we have “The Silence with the Lambs” to thank for that paradigm shift. Jonathan Demme’s film did as much to humanize depraved criminals as any piece of modern day art, thanks in large part to some chillingly magnetic performance from Anthony Hopkins.
Charbonier and Powell accomplish a lot with a little, making the most of their low price range and single location and exploring every square foot of it for maximum tension. They establish a foreboding mood early, and efficiently tell us just enough about these Young children and their friendship to make the way in which they fight for each other feel not just believable but substantial.
Around the audio commentary that Terence Davies recorded with the Criterion Collection release of “The Long Working day Closes,” the self-lacerating filmmaker laments his signature loneliness with a devastatingly casual sense of disregard: “As being a repressed homosexual, I’ve always been waiting for my love to come.
We will never be sure who’s who in this film, and whether the blood on their hands is real or a diabolical trick. That being said, a single thing about “Lost Highway” is absolutely set: This is the Lynch movie that’s the most of its time. Not in a nasty way, curvaceous babe face sitting her thick ass on pliant guy of course, though the film just screams
Bronzeville is usually a Black Local community that’s clearly been shaped because of the city government’s systemic neglect and ongoing de facto segregation, although the patience of Wiseman’s camera ironically allows for just a gratifying eyesight of life outside of the white lens, and without the need for white people. Inside the film’s rousing final phase, former aloha tube NBA player Ron Carter (who then worked for that Department of Housing and Urban Progress) delivers a fired up speech about Black self-empowerment in which he emphasizes how every boss in the chain of command that leads from himself to President Clinton is Black or Latino.
That issue is vital to understanding the film, whose hedonism is simply a doorway for viewers to step through in search of more sublime sensations. Cronenberg’s porn hup path is cold and scientific, the near-continuous fucking mechanical and indiscriminate. The only time “Crash” really comes alive is while in the instant between anticipating death and escaping it. Merging that rush of adrenaline with orgasmic release, “Crash” takes the car to be a phallic image, its potency tied to its potential for violence, and redraws the boundaries of romance around it.
These days, it may be hard to separate Werner Herzog from the meme-driven caricature that he’s cultivated since the good results of “Grizzly Gentleman” — his deadpan voice, his love of Baby Yoda, his droll insistence that a chicken’s eyes betray “a bottomless stupidity, a fiendish stupidity… that they tend to be the most horrifying, cannibalistic, and nightmarish creatures within the world.
The dark has never been darker than it is actually in “Lost Highway.” In reality, “inky” isn’t a strong enough descriptor for the starless desert nights and shadowy corners buzzing with staticky menace that make Lynch’s first official collaboration with novelist Barry Gifford (“Wild At Heart”) the most terrifying movie in his filmography. This is often a “ghastly” black. An “antimatter” black. A black tamil aunty sex where monsters live.
Of every one of the things that Paul Verhoeven’s dark comic look within the future of authoritarian warfare presaged, the way that “Starship Troopers” uses its “Would you like to know more?
It’s no wonder that “Princess Mononoke,” despite being a massive strike in Japan — and also a watershed minute for anime’s existence about the world stage — struggled to find a foothold with American audiences that are rarely asked to acknowledge their hatred, and even more seldom challenged to harness it. Certainly not by a “cartoon.
Life itself is not just a romance or simply a comedy or an overwhelming considering the fact that of “ickiness” or maybe a chance to help out a single’s ailing neighbors (by way of a donated bong or what have you), but all of those things: That’s porn hup a lesson Cher learns throughout her cinematic travails, but a single that “Clueless” was created to celebrate. That’s always in fashion. —
Time seems to have stood still in this place with its black-and-white Television established and rotary phone, a couple of lonely pumpjacks groaning outside supplying the only sounds or movement for miles. (A “Make America Great Again” sticker about the back of the conquer-up vehicle is vaguely amusing but seems gratuitous, and it shakes us from the film’s foggy temper.)