Dreyer’s “Gertrud,” like the various installments of “The Bachelor” franchise, found much of its drama only from characters sitting on elegant sofas and talking about their relationships. “Flowers of Shanghai” achieves a similar effect: it’s a film about sex work that features no sex.
“Deep Cover” is many things at once, including a quasi-male love story between Russell and David, a heated denunciation of capitalism and American imperialism, and ultimately a bitter critique of policing’s effect on Black cops once Russell begins resorting to murderous underworld strategies. At its core, however, Duke’s exquisitely neon-lit film — a hard-boiled genre picture that’s carried by a banging hip-hop soundtrack, sees criminality in both the shadows as well as Sunlight, and keeps its unerring gaze focused on the intersection between noir and Blackness — is about the duality of identity more than anything else.
Some are inspiring and thought-provoking, others are romantic, funny and just plain enjoyable. But they all have a person thing in widespread: You shouldn’t miss them.
In 1992, you’d have been hard-pressed to find a textbook that included more than a sentence about the Nation of Islam leader. He’d been erased. Relegated on the dangerous poisoned tablet antithesis of Martin Luther King Jr. In actual fact, Lee’s 201-moment, warts-and-all cinematic adaptation of “The Autobiography of Malcolm X” is still innovative for shining a light on him. It casts Malcolm not just as flawed and tragic, but as heroic much too. Denzel Washington’s interpretation of Malcolm is meticulous, honest, and enrapturing in the film whose every second is packed with drama and pizazz (those sensorial thrills epitomized by an early dance sequence in which each composition is choreographed with eloquent grace).
Within the audio commentary that Terence Davies recorded for your Criterion Collection release of “The Long Day Closes,” the self-lacerating filmmaker laments his signature loneliness with a devastatingly casual feeling of disregard: “Being a repressed homosexual, I’ve always been waiting for my love to come.
For all of its sensorial timelessness, “The Girl on the Bridge” could possibly be too drunk on its own fantasies — male or otherwise — to shimmer as strongly today mainly because it did in the summer of 1999, but Leconte’s faith in the ecstasy of filmmaking lingers many of the same (see: the orgasmic rehearsal sequence set to porbhub Marianne Faithfull’s “Who Will Take My Dreams Away,” proof that all you need to make a movie is really a girl and a knife).
For such a short drama, It truly is very well rounded and feels like mouth fucked sub chick a much longer story as a consequence of good planning and directing.
That query is key to understanding the film, whose hedonism is solely a doorway for viewers to step through in search of more sublime sensations. Cronenberg’s way is cold and clinical, the near-frequent fucking mechanical and indiscriminate. The only time “Crash” really comes alive is within the instant between anticipating Demise and escaping it. Merging that rush of adrenaline with orgasmic release, “Crash” takes the vehicle as being a phallic symbol, its potency tied to its potential for violence, and redraws the boundaries of romance around it.
“To me, ‘Paris Is Burning’ is such a gift in the sense that it introduced me to your world also to people who were very much like me,’” Janet Mock told IndieWire in 2019.
Navigating lesbian themes worshipped brunette floosy tessa lane gets fucked sideways was a tricky undertaking in the repressed ecosystem of your early sixties. But this revenge drama had the advantage of two of cinema’s all-time powerhouses, Audrey Hepburn and Shirley MacLaine, inside the leading roles, as well as three-time Best Director Oscar winner William Wyler for the helm.
Tailored from the László Krasznahorkai novel on the same name and maintaining the book’s dance-motivated chronology, Béla Tarr’s seven-hour “Sátántangó” tells a Möbius strip-like story about the collapse of a farming collective in post-communist Hungary, news of which inspires a mystical charismatic vulture of a person named Irimiás — played by composer Mihály Vig — to “return from the dead” and prey over the desolation he finds Amongst the desperate and easily manipulated townsfolk.
For such a singular artist and sex aesthete, Wes Anderson has always been comfortable with wearing his influences on his sleeve, rightly showing confidence that he 3 movs can celebrate his touchstones without resigning to them. For evidence, just look at how his characters worship each other in order to find themselves — from Ned Plimpton’s childhood obsession with Steve Zissou, for the gentle awe that Gustave H.
“The Truman Show” could be the rare high concept movie that executes its eye-catching premise to complete perfection. The idea of a man who wakes as much as learn that his entire life was a simulated reality show could have easily gone awry, but director Peter Weir and screenwriter Andrew Niccol managed to craft a believable dystopian satire that has as much to state about our relationships with God because it does our relationships with the Kardashians.
When Satoshi Kon died from pancreatic cancer in 2010 within the tragically premature age of 46, not only did the film world lose one among its greatest storytellers, it also lost certainly one of its most gifted seers. No person had a more precise grasp on how the digital age would see fiction and reality bleed into each other within the most private levels of human perception, and all four from the wildly different features that he made in his transient career (along with his masterful Television show, “Paranoia Agent”) are bound together by a shared preoccupation with the fragility of the self from the shadow of mass media.