It’s easy to write off a movie like Bram Stoker’s Dracula, so married as it is to the neon tackiness of the early 1990s; it’s much harder to recognize that placing itself squarely into that context is an extraordinary device.
After flopping at the box office in February 2000, the dramedy was re-released in November of the same year—and flopped again. But it grossed my heart.
Tim Burton’s most lauded films are famously full of death. But they’re also full of would-be ghosts, characters who linger in the margins of living.
I want to live in the artificial worlds Richard Curtis creates, with their aesthetic rules and regulations, if only to live in a world where problems are surmountable, and everyone is funny.
In describing Cooper Raiff’s emergence onto the independent film scene, it’s easy to lean on what sounds like a novelty hook: at just 23 years old, he’s written, directed, starred in, and co-edited a college-set romcom that went on to win the Grand Jury Prize at South by Southwest.
Alien may have blazed the trail for unlikely female action heroes, but it’s Aliens that made Ripley iconic to girls like me.
Like the push and pull of life, Taste of Cherry is an assortment of contradictions.
Abel Ferrara is a poet of the impotence, the pathos, the zero sum game of socially-acceptable expressions of masculinity.
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.