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 result: it’s a film about sexual intercourse work that features no intercourse.
A miracle excavated from the sunken ruins of the tragedy, plus a masterpiece rescued from what seemed like a surefire Hollywood fiasco, “Titanic” may be tempting to think of because the “Casablanca” or “Apocalypse Now” of its time, but James Cameron’s larger-than-life phenomenon is also lots more than that: It’s every kind of movie they don’t make anymore slapped together into a fifty two,000-ton colossus and then sunk at sea for our amusement.
More than anything, what defined the decade wasn't just the invariable emergence of unique individual filmmakers, but also the arrival of artists who opened new doors towards the endless possibilities of cinematic storytelling. Directors like Claire Denis, Spike Lee, Wong Kar-wai, Jane Campion, Pedro Almodóvar, and Quentin Tarantino became superstars for reinventing cinema on their own phrases, while previously established giants like Stanley Kubrick and David Lynch dared to reinvent themselves while the entire world was watching. Many of these greats are still working today, and also the movies are every one of the better for that.
Established in Philadelphia, the film follows Dunye’s attempt to make a documentary about Fae Richards, a fictional Black actress from the 1930s whom Cheryl discovers playing a stereotypical mammy role. Struck by her beauty and yearning for just a film history that displays someone who looks like her, Cheryl embarks on a journey that — while fictional — tellingly yields more fruit than the real Dunye’s ever experienced.
There are profound thoughts and concepts handed out, nonetheless it's never penned on the nose--It is really subtle enough to avoid that trap. Some scenes are just Outstanding. Like the a person in school when Yoo Han is trying to convince Yeon Woo by talking about color principle and showing him the colour chart.
Side-eyed for years before the film’s beguiling power began to more fully reveal itself (Kubrick’s swansong proving to become every inch as mysterious and rich with meaning as “The Shining” or “2001: A Space Odyssey”), “Eyes Wide Shut” is a clenched sleepwalk through a swirl of overlapping dreamstates.
This Netflix coming-of-age gem follows a shy teenager as she agrees to help a jock gain over his crush. Things get complicated, although, when she develops feelings for your same girl. Charming and real, it will finish up on your list of favorite Netflix romantic movies in no time.
I might spoil if I elaborated more than that, but let's just say that there was a plot component shoved in, that should have been left out. Or at least done differently. Even though it was small, and was kind of poignant for the event of the rest blackambush joey white sami white of the movie, IMO, it cracked that simple, fragile feel and tainted it with a cliché melodrama-plot device. And they didn't even make use in the whole thing and just brushed it away.
“Souls don’t die,” repeats the big title character of this gloriously hand-drawn animated sci-fi tale, as he —not it
Plus the uncomfortable truth behind the achievements of “Schindler’s List” — as both a movie and being an wild homosexuals group sex every other iconic representation of the Shoah — is that it’s every inch as entertaining given that the likes of “E.T.” or “Raiders with the Lost Ark,” even despite the solemnity of its subject matter. It’s similarly rewatchable much too, in parts, which this critic has struggled with since the film became an everyday fixture on cable TV. It finds Spielberg at absolutely the peak of his powers; the slow-boiling denialism with the story’s first half makes “Jaws” feel like per day with the beach, the “Liquidation on the Ghetto” pulses with a fluidity that places any with the director’s previous setpieces to shame, and characters like Ben Kingsley’s Itzhak Stern and Ralph Fiennes’ Amon Göth allow for the type of emotional swings that less genocidal melodramas could never hope to afford.
The magic of Leconte’s monochromatic fairy tale, a Fellini-esque throwback that fizzes along the Mediterranean coast with the madcap Electricity of a “Lupin the III” episode, begins with the fact lingerie porn that Gabor doesn’t even consider (the the latest flimsiness of his knife-throwing act faketaxi indicates an impotence of a different kind).
The ’90s began with a revolt against the kind of bland Hollywood product or service that people might kill to see in theaters today, creaking open a small window of time in which a more commercially feasible American independent cinema began seeping into mainstream fare. Young and exciting directors, many of whom are now major auteurs and perennial IndieWire favorites, were given the resources to make multiple films — some of them on massive scales.
Perhaps it’s fitting that a road movie — the ultimate bf sexy road movie — exists in so many different iterations, each longer than the next, spliced together from other iterations that together produce a feeling of the grand cohesive whole. There is beauty in its meandering quality, its emphasis not on the kind of finish-of-the-world plotting that would have Gerard Butler foaming within the mouth, but within the comfort of friends, lovers, family, acquaintances, and strangers just hanging out. —ES
From that rich premise, “Walking and Talking” churns into a characteristically very low-vital but razor-sharp drama about the complexity of women’s internal lives, as The author-director brings such deep oceans of feminine specificity to her dueling heroines (and their palpable display chemistry) that her attention can’t help but cascade down onto her male characters as well.