"Here, liminal, suspended between floors, everything is left to imagination."
Oliver Stone’s Vietnam War trilogy (Platoon, Born on the Fourth of July, Heaven and Earth) helped shape America’s collective memory of the Vietnam War at a crucial moment.
In Thelma & Louise, the only image more combustible than a Polaroid picture is that of femininity.
Viewed through the lens of 2018, Kiss Me Deadly is decidedly modern in its depiction of an America on the brink.
In Alfred Hitchcock's Rebecca, the flames are a blinding white, almost supernatural in their brightness.
An epic, classical adventure, there is something dream-like about The Lost City of Z's narrative, as if it were conjured up in the imagination and memory of the characters themselves.
On heat and the occult in The Texas Chain Saw Massacre
It's only in a fluid, sun-dazed space like this that a film like Rango can make any sense.
Ostensibly the story of a spoiled Southern belle's slightly deranged love life, Jezebel is more psychologically interesting than it has any right to be.
Miami Blues is Baldwin’s film. He and it vibrate at the same off-kilter atomic frequency, and its whiplashed gearshifts from dark comedy to relationship drama to hyper-violent crime thriller match his own mercurial shifts in mood and tone as he constructs a ferociously charming/charmingly ferocious character.
Summer is restless and stupid and hot.
Tennessee Williams plays are full of many things—verbal gymnastics most of all—but the film versions will always be, for me, about the lush, swollen catalysts of deep summer.