John Cassavetes’ The Killing of a Chinese Bookie is a masterpiece, not in spite of its messiness but rather because of it.
Whether by accident or instinct, Carnival of Souls captures a sense of alienation. And the film itself, fiercely independent, with a singular vision, experienced a similar outcome as its protagonist.
Never have I encountered a more fascinating case of self-indulgence than the diptych of Abre los ojos and Vanilla Sky, two films identical in plot but divergent in story, one chilly and distant and the other seeming to have been shot from inside the most passionate depths of the director’s soul.
The great feat of Gangs of New York is to set itself against familiar versions of American mythology by making American history alien, and, therefore, opening up new perspectives on it.
The Fall is the product of people who throw themselves into the creation of fictions that reflect their own lives, even if those reflections are unintentional, even if each person is really trying to forget about the kind of pain that feels like it will last forever.
Fuses is a labor of love, but it’s Schneemann’s labor that’s often overlooked; the film isn't solely a “diaristic indulgence"—an accusatory phrase levied by male filmmakers—but an immersive creative experience.
Book Club plants itself firmly in a chaotic-good alignment chart position, full of well-meaning spirit that occasionally goes completely off the rails.
The beauty of a spectacle like Riverdale is that it’s the Tom Cruise of TV, skewing wildly in quality and influence, but never once doubting itself.
Tron: Legacy's lasting reputation is mostly that of a flashy action blockbuster, with plenty to show and little to say. But the film's unique visual aesthetic elevates it a level beyond similar films of its kind.
