In making the strange, familiar (and the familiar, strange), Gattaca forces us to reckon with our own humanity and mortality—and the fact that time is coming for us all.
Based on John Cheever’s slippery fever dream of a short story, The Swimmer faithfully translates and expands Cheever’s 12 pages of suburban surrealism into a feature-length nightmare of masculine panic.
The Killing of a Sacred Deer provides a deceitfully complex look at a brand of nihilism often adopted by the upper-middle class, used to deflect the threat of domestic banality or subdue emotional threats.
Lots of comedies are funny because they’re goofy, but Step Brothers is funny for the liminality of the world in which it takes place, a world hovering between live-action cartoon and kitchen-sink reality so precariously that it almost seems to violate the laws of comedy physics.
When your body betrays you, who do you become?
Though disguised as a neo-noir, in many ways Minority Report is really a sci-fi allegory about how corrupt systems thrive through the subjugation of women, the exploitation and dismissal of their pain, and the underestimation of their emotions and abilities.
Crimson Peak hits all the major gothic horror notes: the gauzy nightgowns, the poisoned tea. A little dog trotting curiously down a darkened hallway. Dark legacies. Axe murder. But all of this is beside the point.
Practical Magic is finest in the moments it elevates the raucous comedies and petty dramas of siblinghood into the heightened life and death stakes of witches in peril.
In our apartments, we can let our guard down, be ourselves. How unnerving then, to realize you were never really safe there—that what you thought was a wall was a door all along.
The visuals in Yolanda and the Thief take explicit inspiration from the surrealist landscapes of Salvador Dalí, and while it isn’t the most successful of Vincente Minnelli’s celebrated musicals, it is perhaps the most experimental—and, for me an object of fascination.