The summer I was seven, I spent two days on the middle bench of an airless yellow VW bus driving from Albuquerque to Los Angeles, with my family decomposing all around me.
What we hear, what we see in Until The End Of The World is a commemoration of love, renunciation and grief, an elegy for time on earth.
Home—either the endless quest for it, or the pushing away from its trappings—runs through My Own Private Idaho just as much as any road does.
For a 75-year-old movie whose biggest plot point (and joke) hinges on the sexual inexperience of its central female character, It Happened One Night is still remarkably fresh.
Towards the end of The Vanishing, I began to feel sick to my stomach. I wanted to know what had happened to Saskia, but I was also afraid to know.
The Muppet Movie, like all truly great art, focuses myriad points of anguished thought and feeling into a single beam of light—in this case, literally—to demonstrate, with a simplicity that belies its depth, its own magnificence.
The two things people remember from Sideways is that Miles will not drink any fucking Merlot and that he loves Pinot Noir.
When I was younger, Planes, Trains and Automobiles felt like a peek into this secret world of men that I knew so little about.
As in a dream, where we find ourselves existing in the middle of a moment without questioning its origin, so begins Paris, Texas.
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