The result is really an impressionistic odyssey that spans time and space. Seasons modify as backdrops change from cityscapes to rolling farmland and back. Places are never specified, but lettering on symptoms and snippets of speech lend clues as to where Akerman has placed her camera on any given occasion.
“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 impact on Black cops once Russell begins resorting to murderous underworld tactics. At its core, however, Duke’s exquisitely neon-lit film — a hard-boiled style picture that’s carried by a banging hip-hop soundtrack, sees criminality in both the shadows as well as Solar, and keeps its unerring gaze focused within the intersection between noir and Blackness — is about the duality of identity more than anything else.
The premise alone is terrifying: Two 12-year-old boys get abducted in broad daylight, tied up and taken to your creepy, remote house. When you’re a boy Mother—as I am, of the son around the same age—that may well just be enough to suit your needs, so you won’t to know any more about “The Boy Behind the Door.”
Established in a very hermetic ecosystem — there aren't any glimpses of daylight in any way in this most indoors of movies — or, somewhat, four luxurious brothels in 1884 Shanghai, the film builds delicate progressions of character through in depth dialogue scenes, in which courtesans, attendants, and clients go over their relationships, what they feel they’re owed, and what they’re hoping for.
The movie was influenced by a true story in Iran and stars the particular family members who went through it. Mere days after the news product broke, Makhmalbaf turned her camera around the family and began to record them, directing them to reenact specific scenes depending on a script. The moral inquiries raised by such a technique are complex.
We can easily never be sure who’s who in this film, and whether the blood on their hands is real or perhaps a diabolical trick. That being said, one thing about “Lost Highway” is totally mounted: This could be the Lynch movie that’s the most of its time. Not in a bad way, of course, though the film just screams
“He exists now only in my memory,” Rose said of Jack before sharing her story with Bill Paxton (RIP) and his crew; from the time she reached the top of it, the late Mr. Dawson would be remembered via the entire world. —DE
The relentless nihilism of Mike Leigh’s “Naked” is usually a hard tablet to swallow. Well, less a tablet than a glass of acid with rusty blades for ice cubes. David Thewlis, within a breakthrough performance, is on the dark night on the soul en path to the top on the world, proselytizing darkness to any poor soul who will listen. But Leigh makes the journey to hell thrilling enough for us to glimpse heaven on just how there, his cattle prod of the film opening with a sharp shock as lora cross party girl Johnny (Thewlis) is pictured raping a woman in a dank Manchester alley before he’s chased off by her family and flees to a crummy corner of east London.
Jane Campion doesn’t put much stock in labels — seemingly preferring to adhere on the old Groucho Marx chestnut, “I don’t want to belong to any club that will acknowledge people like me as a member” — and has put in petite twink gets his tight ass fucked by the tv installer her career pursuing work that speaks to her sensibilities. Inquire Campion for her individual views of feminism, and you also’re likely to acquire a solution like the a single she gave fellow filmmaker Katherine Dieckmann inside of a chat for Interview Journal back femdom porn in 1992, when she was still working on “The Piano” (then known as “The Piano Lesson”): “I don’t belong to any clubs, and I dislike club mentality of any kind, even feminism—although I do relate into the purpose and point of feminism.”
Instead of acting like Adèle’s knight in shining armor, Gabor blindfolds himself and throws razor-sharp daggers at her face. Over time, however, the have faith in these lost souls place in each other blossoms into the kind of ineffable bond that only the movies can make you believe in, as their act soon takes on an erotic quality that cuts much deeper than sexual intercourse.
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The artist Bernard Dufour stepped in for long close-ups of his hand (being 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 placed on pause as you see a work take condition in real time.
Looking over its shoulder in a century of cinema for the same time because it boldly steps into the next, the aching coolness of “Ghost Doggy” may well have appeared foolish if not for Robby Müller’s gloomy cinematography and RZA’s funky trip-hop score. But Jarmusch’s film and Whitaker’s character are both so beguiling to the sex18 Weird poetry they find in these unexpected mixtures of cultures, tones, and times, a poetry that allows this (very funny) film to maintain an unbending perception of self even as it trends in the direction of the utter brutality of this world.
The very fact that Swedish filmmaker Lukus Moodysson’s “Fucking Åmål” needed to be retitled something as anodyne as “Show Me Love” for its U.S. release is usually phornhub a perfect testament to a portrait of teenage cruelty and sexuality that still feels more honest than the American movie business can handle.