The film moves in patterns. It’s unhurried about the task at hand, nor does it hurry to reveal too much, too quickly.
American Made (Liman, 2017)
I was prepared for the worst. A few groans and a migraine, maybe. Instead, I actually thought it was rather… fun?
Night of the Demon (Tourneur, 1957)
Night/Curse of the Demon is not top-tier Jacques Tourneur, and if he were still alive today, I think Tourneur would say the same.
Carnival of Souls (Harvey, 1962)
Carnival of Souls is very noticeably low-budget. So much so that you don’t have to visit the IMDb Goofs section for insight.
THX 1138 (Lucas, 1971)
THX 1138 divests itself of context to the point of inner paralysis. Unlike classic dystopian models, it makes no attempt to thread the needle for us, opting instead for an observational approach that feels almost anthropological.
Häxan (Christensen, 1922)
Häxan is one wickedly innovative silent film, and I mean that in a good way.
Halloween (Carpenter, 1978)
If John Carpenter’s Halloween doesn’t feel as fresh today as it once was, it’s understandable.
Laura (Preminger, 1944)
“The devil is in the detail” as they say, and that could also be Laura’s tagline.
To Die For (Van Sant, 1995)
Nicole Kidman has gone from strength to strength in recent years, and 2017 has been especially stellar, what with an Emmy win for Big Little Lies and standout performances in The Beguiled and The Killing of a Sacred Deer. Watching Gus Van Sant’s To Die For, it’s easy to see why she’s gained such a cult following.
Wind River (Sheridan, 2017)
Taylor Sheridan moves his American Western proclivities to Native American soil in Wind River, his directorial debut.
Suburbicon (Clooney, 2017)
I try to find a nice thing to say about every film I watch. But I cannot for the life of me think of anything that I liked about Suburbicon.
The Maltese Falcon (Huston, 1941)
t’s rather a pity Sam Spade is sort of a one-off character in the pantheon of detective fiction (aside from a few minor short stories, The Maltese Falcon is the only novel he ever appeared in). I would’ve loved to see Humphrey Bogart play him again.
The Man Who Wasn’t There (Coen, 2001)
I’m not sure I’d call The Man Who Wasn’t There one of the best efforts from the Coen brothers.
Gilda (Vidor, 1946)
It’s really, really hard not to read the homoerotic subtext of Gilda when, five minutes in, a man rescues a gambler from certain death using a very phallic-looking cane—a cane that also conceals a knife.
The Lonely Film Critic 