Aware that The Post had not been faring so well this award season, my expectations were not very high. Nor did the opening prologue, showcasing a snippet of the Vietnam War, help assuage my fears that this […]
Chances are, four out of five people reading this review will never have heard of this film. “Wait, there’s another movie about Wonder Woman?!” they will exclaim. And to that I say: yes… and no. Technically […]
Stories like the one told in Indian Horse demand greater representation. The colonial injustices against the Indigenous peoples of Canada, like the abuse they suffered in residential schools for over a century, are a national shame that […]
Does anyone nowadays care how Louis XIV died? I certainly didn’t. Nevertheless, Albert Serra imagines the event as though it were a slowly deflating balloon in a burnished Baroque painting.
A number of people whose opinion I value didn’t much care for Battle of the Sexes. I decided to give it a go all the same, in case there was something in it they weren’t seeing. I’m sad to say that they were right.
Even if Emilija did not exist as a person, one can still imagine others like her finding themselves on the path of resistance, and that type of verity is what makes Emilija a compelling watch—in spite of its relative unevenness.
It painstakingly fenceposts its plot developments to an almost embarrassingly obvious degree, it wants your heart to swell as the protagonists overcome their adversities (and adversaries) and get where they want to be, and it doesn’t scream highbrow cinema at all—and is almost proud not to.
Trying to explicate all the resonances, nuances, brushstrokes and calibres that make up this staggering (yes, staggering) masterwork would take a long time, and it’s time I, sadly, don’t have.
I could have done without the blatant allegorizing, which is dialed 1-800-TOO-MUCH to the point of self-parody at times.
The Little Hours is one of those films that can be enjoyed in the moment, but afterwards leaves you wondering why it exists.
Just imagine these men—some just boys—crouched on the sand, poking for explosives, nervously deactivating them, knowing that one wrong move will be their end… imagine that, and you will also accurately represent this incredibly tense film.
James Gray is a director you can count on to give you just the right amount of beauty and substance. It’s always a pleasure to watch one of his films, because the compositions are always so on-point, the technique so crisp and luminescent, and the storytelling packed with emotional beats and refined characterisation.
Guy Maddin is a singular filmmaker, whose vision is his and his only. You can’t say that about many filmmakers, but it applies unconditionally to Maddin.
I like Christopher Nolan’s films, though strangely I wouldn’t call him a favourite of mine. His visions are grand and operatic, and he finds ways to marry them to intimate settings and emotions, but I’ve never had the urge to watch his works more than once. Dunkirk may be the film that changes that.
Yikes. Any film that ends with an Indian subject kissing the bust of Queen Victoria is bound to get into trouble, and Victoria & Abdul deserves it, I’m sorry to say.