Because the tone and content of her writing were so personal, Ephron’s success paradoxically depended on her carefully curated public image. While everything is copy, it’s only copy when she wants it to be, and her power lies in that distinction between open and secret.
With each narrative reveal, one gets the creeping sense that Pierre, too, by virtue of his very infidelity, his childish behavior, his destructive impulses, lives in the shadow of the woman he’s betraying.
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.
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.