As a narrative, Kieślowski's Red is often recursively and sometimes even reflexively understood. It’s a film of ellipses, of threads dropped and picked up until, suddenly, they are woven.
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JoinedMay 26, 2017
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Ivy Nelson is a writer living in Queens. Her writing has appeared in Pitchfork and The Guardian, among other publications. She also plays drums and sings in the band FAITH/VOID. She lives with their two cats, Superbass and Retsina.
On doubles, haunted spaces, memory, and grief in Twin Peaks, Possession, and Vertigo
Paul Verhoeven's movies talk to each other through time. In other words, all of his movies are the same.
But I'm a Cheerleader takes a remarkably bleak and real concept—conversion therapy—and exaggerates it until it glows with a gentle absurdity.
In Detention, time doesn’t pass—the characters move through it and alter its substance.
White feels like the afterimage of a comedy, a funny movie whose characters seem to fall through its sheer absence of jokes, into ambiguous and oblique gaps.
Coincidence works a fractured path through Krzysztof Kieślowski’s Blue.
As a concert film, The Last Waltz is an effective document of The Band; it’s also, in a way, an effective document of Martin Scorsese in the mid-1970s.
The most established character in the documentary Jazz on a Summer’s Day is the audience.
The specific movements of Southland Tales begin to resemble the curious logic of dreams: hurried, recursive, dissolving into themselves.
There’s a recurring image in Heavy Metal of bodies dissolving, the arc of human life reduced to nothing but eyes and bones draped senselessly in fathoms of goo.