this relatively unsung drama laid bare the devastation the previous pandemic wreaked on the gay Group. It was the first film dealing with the subject of AIDS to receive a wide theatrical release.
The legacy of “Jurassic Park” has triggered a three-decade long franchise that recently hit rock-bottom with this summer’s “Jurassic World: Dominion,” although not even that is enough to diminish its greatness, or distract from its nightmare-inducing power. For the wailing kindergartener like myself, the film was so realistic that it poised the tear-filled question: What if that T-Rex came to life in addition to a real feeding frenzy ensued?
It’s easy being cynical about the meaning (or deficiency thereof) of life when your job involves chronicling — on an yearly foundation, no less — if a large rodent sees his shadow at a splashy event placed on by a tiny Pennsylvania town. Harold Ramis’ 1993 classic is cunning in both its general concept (a weatherman whose live and livelihood is set by grim chance) and execution (sounds bad enough for in the future, but what said working day was the only day of your life?
With Tyler Durden, novelist Chuck Palahniuk invented an impossibly cool avatar who could bark truisms at us with a quasi-religious touch, like Zen Buddhist koans that have been deep-fried in Axe body spray. With Brad Pitt, David Fincher found the perfect specimen to make that person as real to audiences as he is into the story’s narrator — a superstar who could seduce us and make us resent him for it with the same time. In a very masterfully directed movie that served like a reckoning with the 20th Century as we readied ourselves for the twenty first (and ended with a man reconciling his previous demons just in time for some towers to implode under the burden of his new ones), Tyler became the physical embodiment of purchaser masculinity: Aspirational, impossible, insufferable.
The timelessness of “Central Station,” a film that betrays Not one of the mawkishness that elevated so much in the ’90s middlebrow feel-good fare, can be owed to how deftly the script earns the bond that types between its mismatched characters, And the way lovingly it tends on the vulnerabilities they expose in each other. The benefit with which Dora rests her head on Josué’s lap inside of a poignant scene implies that whatever twist of destiny brought this pair together under such trying circumstances was looking out for them both.
Gauzy pastel hues, flowery designs and lots of gossamer blond hair — these are some of the images that linger after you arise from the trance cast by “The Virgin Suicides,” Sofia Coppola’s snapshot of five sisters in parochial suburbia.
did for feminists—without the car going from the cliff.” In other words, set the Kleenex away and just enjoy love as it blooms onscreen.
That dilemma is essential to understanding the film, whose hedonism is just a doorway for viewers to step through in search of more sublime sensations. Cronenberg’s course is cold and clinical, the near-continuous fucking mechanical and indiscriminate. The only time “Crash” really comes alive is from the instant between anticipating Loss of life and escaping it. Merging that rush of adrenaline with orgasmic release, “Crash” takes the car to be 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 from the perception that it introduced me to a world and also to people who were very much like me,’” Janet Mock told IndieWire in 2019.
“After Life” never explains itself — Quite the opposite, it’s presented with the boring matter-of-factness of another Monday morning for the office. Somewhere, inside the quiet limbo between this world and the next, there is often a spare but tranquil facility where the useless are interviewed about their lives.
The magic of Leconte’s monochromatic fairy tale, a Fellini-esque throwback that fizzes along the Mediterranean coast with the madcap Vitality of a “Lupin the III” episode, begins with the fact that Gabor doesn’t porn sexy video even attempt (the new flimsiness of his knife-throwing act implies an impotence of a different kind).
The artist Bernard Dufour stepped in for long close-ups of his hand (to get Frenhofer’s) as he sketches and paints Marianne for unbroken minutes at a time. During those mzansiporn moments, the plot, the particular push and pull between artist and model, is put on pause as the thing is a work take shape in real time.
There are manic pixie dream girls, and there are manic pixie dream girls. And then — 1,000 miles further than the borders of “Elizabethtown” and “Garden State” — there’s Vanessa Paradis as being a disaffected, suicidal, 21-year-aged nymphomaniac named dink loving shameless tgirl sienna grace Advertèle who throws herself into the Seine msn hotmail sign in within the start of Patrice Leconte’s romantic, intoxicating “The Girl on the Bridge,” only to get plucked from the freezing water by an unlucky knifethrower (Daniel Auteuil as Gabor) in need of a new ingenue to play the human target in his traveling circus act.
David Cronenberg adapting a J.G. Ballard novel about people who get turned on by car crashes was bound to generally be provocative. “Crash” transcends the label, grinning in perverse delight because ebony sex it sticks its fingers into a gaping wound. Something similar happens in the backseat of an automobile in this movie, just one inside the cavalcade of perversions enacted from the film’s cast of pansexual risk-takers.