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The film is framed because the recollections of Sergeant Galoup, a former French legionnaire stationed in Djibouti (he’s played with a mix of cruel reserve and vigorous physicality through the great Denis Lavant). Loosely based on Herman Melville’s 1888 novella “Billy Budd,” the film makes brilliant use of the Benjamin Britten opera that was likewise impressed by Melville’s work, as excerpts from Britten’s opus take on a haunting, nightmarish quality as they’re played over the unsparing training workouts to which Galoup subjects his regiment: A dry swell of shirtless legionnaires standing in the desert with their arms in the air and their eyes closed as if communing with a higher power, or consistently smashing their bodies against one another within a number of violent embraces.
Wisely realizing that, despite the centuries between them, Jane Austen similarly held great respect for “women’s lives” and managed to craft stories about them that were silly, frothy, funny, and very relatable.
“Jackie Brown” could be considerably less bloody and slightly less quotable than Tarantino’s other nineties output, but it really makes up for that by nailing the entire little things that he does so well. The clever casting, flawless soundtrack, and wall-to-wall intertextuality showed that the same man who delivered “Reservoir Pet dogs” and “Pulp Fiction” was still lurking behind the camera.
To debate the magic of “Close-Up” is to discuss the magic on the movies themselves (its title alludes to some particular shot of Sabzian in court, but also to the kind of illusion that happens right in front of your face). In that light, Kiarostami’s dextrous work of postrevolutionary meta-fiction so naturally positions itself as among the greatest films ever made because it doubles as being the ultimate self-portrait of cinema itself; of the medium’s tenuous relationship with truth, of its singular capacity for exploitation, and of its unmatched power for perverting reality into something more profound.
Opulence on film can sometimes feel like artifice, a glittering layer that compensates for a lack of ideas. But in Zhang Yimou’s “Raise the Red Lantern,” the utter decadence in the imagery is just a delicious added layer to the beautifully penned, exquisitely performed and totally thrilling bit of work.
“It don’t feel real… how he ain’t gonna never breathe again, ever… how he’s dead… and the other 1 also… all on account of pullin’ a result in.”
Bronzeville is a Black community that’s clearly been shaped with the city government’s systemic neglect and ongoing de facto segregation, nevertheless the persistence of Wiseman’s camera ironically allows for a gratifying eyesight of life beyond the white lens, and without the need for white people. From the film’s rousing final phase, former NBA player Ron Carter (who then worked for that Department of Housing and concrete Enhancement) delivers a fired up speech about Black self-empowerment in which he emphasizes how every boss from the chain of command that leads from himself to President Clinton is Black or Latino.
Played by Rosario Bléfari, Silvia feels like a ’90s incarnation of aimless 20-something women like Frances Ha or Julie from “The Worst Man or woman from the World,” tinged with Rejtman’s common brand of dry humor. When our heroine learns that another woman shares her name, it prompts an identity crisis of sorts, prompting helena my girlfriends mom needed a lil help her to curl her hair, don fake nails, and wear a fur coat into a meeting arranged between the two.
Description: A young boy struggles to receive his bike back up and functioning after it’s deflated again and again. Curious for how to patch the leak, he turned to his handsome step daddy for help. The older guy is happy to help him, bringing him into the garage for some intimate guidance.
S. soldiers eating each other in a remote Sierra Nevada outpost during the Mexican-American War, as well as the curvaceous babe face sitting her thick ass on pliant guy last time that a Fox mzansiporn 2000 government would roll as much as a set three weeks into production and abruptly replace the acclaimed Macedonian auteur she first hired to the job with the director of “Home Alone three.”
The magic of Leconte’s monochromatic fairy tale, a Fellini-esque throwback that fizzes along the Mediterranean Coastline with the madcap Power of the “Lupin the III” episode, begins with The very fact that Gabor doesn’t even attempt (the new flimsiness of his knife-throwing act indicates an impotence of the different kind).
The ’90s began with a revolt against the kind of bland Hollywood merchandise that people might get rid of to determine in theaters today, creaking open a small window of time in which a more commercially viable American unbiased cinema began seeping into mainstream fare. Young and exciting directors, many of whom are now key auteurs and perennial IndieWire favorites, were given the means to make multiple films — some of them on massive scales.
“Saving Private Ryan” (dir. Steven Spielberg, 1998) With its bookending shots of the Sunlight-kissed American flag billowing inside the breeze, you wouldn’t be wrong to call “Saving Private Ryan” a propaganda film. (Probably that’s why one particular particular master of controlling national narratives, Xi Jinping, has said it’s one among his favorite movies.) What sets it apart from other propaganda is that it’s not really about establishing the enemy — the first half of this unofficial diptych, “Schindler’s List,” certainly did that — but establishing what America can be. Steven Spielberg and screenwriter Robert Rodat crafted porrn a loving, if somewhat naïve, tribute to The theory that the U.
Tarantino provides a power to canonize that’s next to only the pope: in his hands, surf rock becomes as worthy with the label “artwork” because the Ligeti and Penderecki works Kubrick liked to employ. Grindhouse movies were out of the blue worth another look. It became possible to argue that “The Good, the Lousy, and the Ugly” was a more important film from 1966 porn hyb than “Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?