Jia doesn’t leave the character of China's transformations to the audience's imagination. Tao’s son is given the name Dollar. “I will make you lots of money,” his dad whispers to the child.
Straddling thresholds of genre, style, and class, Blow Out challenges the seemingly dichotomous relationship between popular low-budget movies and esoteric Hollywood films.
It’s like gawking at Whistler’s Mother in the Mussée D’Orsay while Whistler himself stands over your shoulder and talks to you about it.
It is extremely engaging to witness Brian’s descent into madness and his recovery from it side by side. The pacing is excellent—although the film builds towards two separate climaxes, they seemingly progress as one.
Dorsky and Hiler know the value of absence, of dark space—the film artist’s equivalent of the painter’s blank canvas, or the writer’s blank page.
The bulk of the film makes us beg as she does for something to alleviate what, after just twenty minutes of interior shots of the French apartment, can feel like an endless entrapment.
Insiang ruthlessly exposes how the slums of the Philippines thoroughly consumed its inhabitants.
Kitty Genovese’s life has disappeared behind her public, dramatic, and eminently watchable death. We, as the audience, are transformed into cruel spectators, craning our necks to see footage of bloody handprints and desperate screaming, reifying her tragedy by refusing her a life before death at all.
Our NYFF coverage continues with Alex Robertson's "Christgau capsules" for three documentaries.
Much as De Palma is at his most original and his most political when he “does” Hitchcock, Baumbach is at his proudest, his most creative, and his most ambitious when he points the camera at his subject and listens.