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It’s tricky to explain “Until the End of the World,” Wim Wenders’ languid, far-flung futuristic road movie, without feeling like you’re leaving something out. It’s about a couple of drifters (luminous Solveig Dommartin and gruff William Damage) meeting and un-meeting while hopping from France to Germany to Russia to China to America within the run from factions of legislation enforcement and bounty hunter syndicates, but it’s also about an experimental technological know-how that allows people to transmit memories from just one brain to another, and about a planet living in suspended animation while waiting for your satellite to crash at an unknown place at an unknown time And perhaps cause a nuclear disaster. A good part of it's just about Australia.
The cleverly deceitful marketing campaign that turned co-directors Daniel Myrick and Eduardo Sánchez’s first feature into one of many most profitable movies since “Deep Throat” was designed to goad people into assuming “The Blair Witch Project” was real (the trickery involved using something called a “website”).
In her masterful first film, Coppola uses the tools of cinema to paint adolescence as an ethereal fairy tale that is both ridden with malaise and as wispy like a cirrus cloud.
The patron saint of Finnish filmmaking, Aki Kaurismäki more or less defined the country’s cinematic output during the 80s and 90s, releasing a steady stream of darkly comedic films about down-and-out characters enduring the absurdities of everyday life.
Assayas has defined the central dilemma of “Irma Vep” as “How are you going to go back into the original, virginal energy of cinema?,” nevertheless the film that question prompted him to make is only so rewarding because the solutions it provides all appear to contradict each other. They ultimately flicker together in one of several greatest endings with the 10 years, as Vidal deconstructs his dailies into a violent barrage of semi-structuralist doodles that would be meaningless if not for how perfectly they indicate Vidal’s results at creating a cinema that is shaped — but not owned — by the earlier. More than twenty five years later, Assayas is still trying to figure out how he did that. —DE
It’s easy to make high school and its inhabitants appear foolish or transitory, but Heckerling is keenly mindful of the formative power of those teenage years. “Clueless” understands that while some of its jenna jameson characters’ concerns are small potatoes (Certainly, some people did get rid of all their athletic products during the Pismo Beach catastrophe, and no, a biffed driver’s test isn't the conclude of the world), these experiences are also going to lead to the way they approach life dropmms forever.
The very premise of Walter Salles’ “Central Station,” an exquisitely photographed and life-affirming drama established during the same present in which it absolutely was shot, is enough to make the film sound like a relic of its time. Salles’ Oscar-nominated strike tells the story of the former teacher named Dora (Fernanda Montenegro), who makes a living creating letters for illiterate working-class people who transit a busy Rio de Janeiro train station. Severe along with a bit tactless, Montenegro’s Dora is way from a lovable maternal figure; she’s quick to evaluate her clients and dismisses their struggles with arrogance.
While the trio of films that comprise hot schedule Krzysztof Kieślowski’s “Three Colors” are only bound together by funding, happenstance, and a typical struggle for self-definition in a very chaotic modern day world, there’s something quasi-sacrilegious about singling amongst them out in spite in the other two — especially when that honor is bestowed on “Blue,” the first and most severe chapter of a triptych whose final installment is often considered the best amid equals. Each of Kieślowski’s final three features stands together on its own, and all of them are strengthened by their shared fascination with the ironies of a society whose interconnectedness was already starting to reveal its natural solipsism.
The dark has never been darker than it can be in “Lost Highway.” Actually, “inky” isn’t a strong enough descriptor with the starless desert nights and shadowy corners buzzing with staticky menace that make Lynch’s first official collaboration with novelist Barry Gifford (“Wild At Heart”) the most terrifying movie in his filmography. This is actually a “ghastly” black. An “antimatter” black. A black where monsters live.
An 188-minute movie without a second from place, “Magnolia” is the byproduct of bloodshot egomania; it’s endowed with a wild arrogance that starts from its roots and grows like a tumor until God shows up and it naughtyamerica feels like they’re just another member from the cast. And thank heavens that someone
The artist Bernard Dufour stepped in for long close-ups of his hand (to generally be Frenhofer’s) as he sketches and paints Marianne for unbroken minutes at a time. During those moments, the plot, the actual push and pull between artist and model, is put on pause as the thing is a work take condition in real time.
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From that rich premise, “Walking and Talking” churns into a characteristically very low-essential but razor-sharp drama about the complexity of women’s internal lives, as The author-director brings gaytube such deep oceans of feminine specificity to her dueling heroines (and their palpable monitor chemistry) that her attention can’t help but cascade down onto her male characters as well.