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Heckerling’s witty spin on Austen’s “Emma” (a novel about the perils of match-making and injecting yourself into situations in which you don’t belong) has remained a perennial favorite not only because it’s a smart freshening on the classic tale, but because it allows for thus much more over and above the Austen-issued drama.
“What’s the primary difference between a Black man in addition to a n****r?” A landmark noir that hinges on Black identity and also the so-called war on prescription drugs, Invoice Duke’s “Deep Cover” wrestles with that provocative query to bloody ends. It follows an undercover DEA agent, Russell Stevens Jr. (Laurence Fishburne at his absolute hottest), as he works to atone to the sins of his father by investigating the cocaine trade in Los Angeles inside a bid to bring Latin American kingpins to court.
“Hyenas” is probably the great adaptations of the ‘90s, a transplantation of a Swiss playwright’s post-World War II story of how a Group could fall into fascism like a parable of globalization: like so many Western companies throughout Africa, Linguere has offered some material comforts to the people of Colobane while ruining their overall economy, shuttering their field, and making the people utterly depending on them.
Beneath the glassy surfaces of nearly every Todd Haynes’ movie lives a woman pressing against them, about to break out. Julianne Moore has played two of those: a suburban housewife chained towards the social order of racially segregated 1950s Connecticut in “Significantly from Heaven,” and as another psychically shackled housewife, this time in 1980s Southern California, in “Safe.”
To such uncultured fools/people who aren’t complete nerds, Anno’s psychedelic film might seem to be like the incomprehensible story of a traumatized (but extremely horny) teenage boy who’s pressured to sit in the cockpit of a huge purple robot and judge regardless of whether all humanity should be melded into a single consciousness, or if the liquified purple goo that’s left of their bodies should be allowed to reconstitute itself at some point within the future.
Montenegro became the first — and still only — Brazilian actor to generally be nominated for an Academy Award, and Salles’ two-hander reaches the sublime because de Oliveira, at his young age, summoned a powerful concoction of mixed emotions. Profoundly touching still never saccharine, Salles’ breakthrough ends with a fitting testament to the idea that some memories never fade, even as our indifferent world asianporn continues to spin forward. —CA
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And however, since the number of survivors continues to dwindle plus the Holocaust fades ever even further into the rear-view (making it that much a lot easier for online cranks and elected officials alike to fulfill Göth’s dream of turning hundreds of years of Jewish history into the stuff of rumor), it has grown simpler to understand japaneseporn the upside of Hoberman’s prediction.
As with all of Lynch’s work, the development in the director’s pet themes and aesthetic obsessions is clear in “Lost Highway.” The film’s discombobulating Möbius strip framework builds about the dimension-hopping time loops of “Twin Peaks: Fire Walk With Me,” while its descent into L.
The dark has never been darker than it's in “Lost Highway.” Actually, “inky” isn’t a strong enough descriptor for your starless desert nights and shadowy corners humming with staticky menace that make Lynch’s first Formal collaboration with novelist Barry Gifford (“Wild At Heart”) the most terrifying movie in his filmography. This is a “ghastly” black. An “antimatter” black. A black where monsters live.
Disappointed via the interminable post-production of “Ashes of Time” and itching to acquire out of the modifying room, Wong Kar-wai strike the streets of Hong Kong and — within a blitz of pent-up creative imagination — slapped together one of the most earth-shaking films of its 10 years in less than two months.
Despite criticism for its fictionalized account of Wegener’s story as well as casting of cisgender thumbzilla actor Eddie Redmayne within the title role, the film was a group-pleaser that performed well within the box office.
Rivette was the most narratively elusive on the French filmmakers who rose up with the New Wave. He played with time and long-sort storytelling in the thirteen-hour “Out 1: Noli me sex photo tangere” and showed his extraordinary affinity for women’s stories in “Celine and Julie Go Boating,” one of many most purely enjoyment movies in the ‘70s. An affinity for conspiracy, of detecting some mysterious plot from the margins, suffuses his work.
The film boasts among the most enigmatic titles in the ten years, the strange, sonorous juxtaposition of those two words almost always presented inside the original French. It could be read through as “beautiful work” in English — but the thought of describing work as “beautiful” is somehow dismissive, as if the legionnaires’ highly choreographed routines and domestic tasks are more of a performance than part of an advanced military method.