I told the almost comically friendly customs agent that I’m in Canada for business and not pleasure, so in the interest of not getting apprehended by the mounties, my top priority remains the almighty cinema.
Where in previous summers Paul Simon’s Concert in the Park was a gleeful way to keep post-concert blues at bay between shows, now it’s a constant battle to try not to cry while listening to it.
How Ganja & Hess (1973) and Soleil O (1967) reflect complexities of Black american and African immigrant experiences.
When I watch My Own Private Idaho I feel a profound nostalgia for the person I was, for the city I loved.
Alien may have blazed the trail for unlikely female action heroes, but it’s Aliens that made Ripley iconic to girls like me.
On queerness, fate, and adaptation as tragedy in Jesus Christ Superstar.
The relationship between Black American iconoclasm and French noir stylings highlights the contagious nature of social criticism itself, and the immensely broad potential for art and cinema to unite disparate but like-minded cultures.
Charles Bramesco attends TIFF.
Skinamarink presents a case of found memory, the scratches and wear of time on one’s recollection disfiguring—yet never wholly obscuring—foundational apprehensions.
Abel Ferrara is a poet of the impotence, the pathos, the zero sum game of socially-acceptable expressions of masculinity.
I can count, on one hand, the number of times I’ve cried since the beginning of March. On the same hand, I can count the number of times I’ve called home.
"I’ve gotten better at letting it go, but something like that scene sort of stays with you for a bit. It’s hard to shake that off after the work is done. It definitely involved a really long hot shower and maybe a bath and a martini or something."
