Sean Baker's Tangerine might be a manifesto of a kind of care that we could call “good enough,” a care in which we cannot give each other everything, but we can give each other everything we can.
Whether lost in the pregnant pause of a phantom victory, swamped by the rush of bizarre sex appeal, or struggling with the desire to follow a new best friend but kept back by the ironclad claims of home, Pee-wee understands that dreams are the basis for strange journeys.
The road movie genre is divisible into two general types: those that move, looking either forward to the promises of the horizon or away from the disappointments of the past—and those that don’t, the promises of the road making two halves of the parenthesis, charging the moment of stasis with meaning it might not otherwise have. Wendy and Lucy takes place in one of these pauses.
For a road film, Vincente Minnelli's The Long, Long Trailer exhibits a remarkable sense of stasis; for a film designed to take the Ricardos from the diminutive screen to the silver screen, it exhibits a remarkable sense of claustrophobia.
In Fellini's La Strada, we enter another plane by grace of Gelsomina. Gelsomina (Giulietta Masina) is the Spirit, the Soul. She will play the trumpet.
In its own time, this hard-to-pigeonhole ambling road picture had as much trouble finding its place in the world as Max and Lion. But the past decade has seen Scarecrow garner a cult following, with Pacino and Hackman both publicly praising it, and director Jerry Schatzberg even rhapsodizing about a sequel.
Bookended by the post-industrial Midwestern hellscapes of Stranger Than Paradise and the twilight tourist Americana of Mystery Train, Jim Jarmusch's Down by Law takes us to the bayous of New Orleans, where a pimp, a radio DJ, and an Italian traveler all wind up in jail.
Whereas Hirokazu Kore-eda's Shoplifters is a fairly stationary film, charting one family’s experiences in and around their cramped Tokyo home, Broker is a story of people on the move.
Jonathan Demme’s Something Wild is a lot of things—Renoirian screwball, Gen-X The Odd Couple, defense for the reggae mixtape—but it’s a road movie first and foremost.
For all its discussions of morals and metaphysics, Stalker is ultimately a film about criticism—not in the sense of simply pronouncing something wasteful or worthwhile, but in the explicative sense, wherein interpreting an object or experience imparts a particular way of seeing.
