The fallout of Blue Moon is an assertive, pile-driving movie star performance from Ethan Hawke, but most compelling is how Richard Linklater and his collaborators have rendered this occasion to tell about a life—even a night’s life—in the terms one uses to speak about art itself.
PositionStaff Writer
JoinedOctober 9, 2019
Articles33
Frank Falisi is a writer from New Jersey whose work has appeared in Tiny Mix Tapes, Reverse Shot, MUBI's Notebook, LARB, and Brooklyn Rail, among other outlets.
The Name of the Rose is a period piece that doesn't cannibalize the context of its setting to make cheap polemical observations—opting instead for genre fiction’s agility and palpability of feeling—which makes it instructive and pleasurable viewing in the strange woggle space between 2025 and 2026.
In their (hi)stories of successful losers as well as all the winners who fail perfectly, Jon Bois and Alex Rubenstein find our most human shapes: pleasure in each others’ company, the sublime tension of failing again better, and something like love by a different name.
How is it, between the four lines that form a televisual frame, that Jonathan Demme’s Who Am I This Time? is among the most romantic gestures ever set to film?
That The Elephant Man dresses up inquiries into genuine, turbulent grace in the historically staid traditions of biopic and period costume drama reveal David Lynch’s aspirations to be as formally experimental as they are narratively humanistic.
"It seems to me there’s a lot of mythologies that exist—mythological positions in film criticism—that I’m trying to combat. One of them is that you can say, in some kind of ultimate way, that one film is good or one film is bad. That’s ridiculous. It seems perfectly reasonable that a film that might be good for me might not be good for you. Therefore, if you say “I”, you’re being honest."
In Robert Zemeckis’s Here, boomerism reveals itself as the most outdated technology of all, not by virtue of an elegant thesis and well-collated evidence, but simply because it executes the exact same experiment over and over again.
Preston Sturges’s stories are expert and clean constructions, turnt on drips of irony dribbled out far as they’ll go before they snap back into classical resolution of form: marriage and remarriage, sometimes three times over. But Sturges’s writing—a process that we might say touches story with style and translates the science of “motivation” into the language of desire—resides and thrives in the fugitive space of non-optimizable chaos.
Of the more than 80 film and television scores Terence Blanchard has composed in the last 33 years, his work for Spike Lee's Jungle Fever—the first full film score of his (blessedly still in-progress) career—is its own skeleton key for an artist of restless melodic innovation and excavation.
The urge after life—from art and business alike—is the creation of memorial. But memorial for Corman feels impossible, if only for the breadth. He directed nearly 60 films, produced some 385. By 1964, he was the youngest filmmaker to have a retrospective at the Cinémathèque française. In April 2020, the 94-year-old announced “the first (and hopefully last) Corman Quarantine Film Festival.”
On the first day of February, a touch early to smell the Spring Training hot dogs but late enough not to worry about wanting it, I spoke to John DeMarsico—the New York Mets Game Director at SNY—about the cinema inside of baseball and the baseball inside of everything else.
The Wonderful Story of Henry Sugar finds Wes Anderson at his most rigorously experimental, committing to Anderson’s curational ‘style as form’ strategy not as a means of ferrying feeling but as its very manifestation.












