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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 mixture of cruel reserve and vigorous physicality because of the great Denis Lavant). Loosely based on Herman Melville’s 1888 novella “Billy Budd,” the film makes brilliant use in the Benjamin Britten opera that was likewise influenced by Melville’s work, as excerpts from Britten’s opus take with a haunting, nightmarish quality as they’re played over the unsparing training exercises to which Galoup subjects his regiment: A dry swell of shirtless legionnaires standing from the desert with their arms during the air and their eyes closed as if communing with a higher power, or continuously smashing their bodies against one another inside a series of violent embraces.
, among the list of most beloved films of your ’80s in addition to a Steven Spielberg drama, has a lot going for it: a stellar cast, including Oscar nominees Whoopi Goldberg and Oprah Winfrey, Pulitzer Prize-profitable supply material in addition to a timeless theme of love (in this circumstance, between two women) for a haven from trauma.
All of that was radical. It's now recognized without dilemma. Tarantino mined ‘60s and ‘70s pop culture in “Pulp Fiction” how Lucas and Spielberg had the ‘30s, ‘40s, and ‘50s, but he arguably was even more successful in repackaging the once-disreputable cultural artifacts he unearthed as artwork for that Croisette plus the Academy.
To debate the magic of “Close-Up” is to debate the magic from the movies themselves (its title alludes to a 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 one of several greatest films ever made because it doubles as being the ultimate self-portrait of cinema itself; of your medium’s tenuous relationship with truth, of its singular capacity for exploitation, and of its unmatched power for perverting reality into something more profound.
The emotions linked with the passage of time is a major thing for your director, and with this film he was capable of do in one night what he does with the sprawling temporal canvas of “Boyhood” or “Before” trilogy, as he captures many feelings at once: what it means being a freshman kissing a cool older girl given that the Sunlight rises, the feeling of being a senior staring at the conclusion of the party, and why the top of one major life stage can feel so aimless and Peculiar. —CO
The result is our humble attempt at curating the best of a decade that was bursting with new ideas, fresh Vitality, and much too many damn fine films than any best one hundred list could hope to have.
Seen today, steeped in nostalgia to the freedoms of a pre-handover Hong Kong, “Chungking Convey” still feels new. The film’s lasting power is especially impressive from the face of such a fast-paced world; a world in which nothing could be more valuable than a concrete offer from someone willing to share the same future with you — even if that offer is prepared over a napkin. —DE
James Cameron’s 1991 blockbuster (to wit, over half a billion bucks in worldwide returns) is consistently — and rightly — hailed given that the best with the sprawling apocalyptic franchise netvideogirls about the need not to misjudge both Arnold Schwarzenegger and Linda Hamilton.
While the trio of films that comprise Krzysztof Kieślowski’s “Three Colours” are only bound together by financing, happenstance, and a common struggle for self-definition within a chaotic contemporary world, there’s something quasi-sacrilegious about singling certainly one of them out in spite in the other two — especially when that honor is bestowed upon “Blue,” the first and most severe chapter of a triptych whose final installment is usually considered the best among the equals. Each of Kieślowski’s final three features stands together By itself, and all of them are strengthened by their shared vigorous blonde sweetie jessa rhodes bent over for a bonk fascination with the ironies of a society whose interconnectedness was already starting to reveal its natural solipsism.
None of this would have been possible if not for Jim Carrey’s career-defining performance. No other actor could have captured the combination of joy and darkness that made Truman Burbank so captivating to both the fictional viewers watching his show and also the moviegoers in 1998.
Many of Almodóvar’s recurrent thematic obsessions appear here at the peak of their artistry and effectiveness: surrogate mothers, distant mothers, unprepared mothers, parallel mothers, their absent male counterparts, as well as a protagonist who ran away from the turmoil of life but who must ultimately return to face the earlier. Roth, an acclaimed Argentine actress, navigates Manuela’s grief with a brilliantly deceiving air of serenity; her character worshipped brunette kristina bell gets access to a penis is useful but crumbles at the mere mention of her late boy or girl, frequently submerging us in her insurmountable pain.
It’s no wonder that “Princess Mononoke,” despite being a massive hit in Japan — along with a watershed second for anime’s presence about the world stage — struggled to find a foothold with American audiences who are seldom asked to acknowledge their hatred, and even more seldom challenged to harness it. Certainly not by a “cartoon.
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David Cronenberg adapting a J.G. Ballard novel about people who get turned on by car crashes was bound being provocative. “Crash” transcends the label, grinning in worshipped brunette kristina bell gets access to a penis perverse delight as it sticks its fingers into a gaping wound. Something similar happens inside the backseat of an automobile in this movie, just a person during the cavalcade of perversions enacted through the film’s cast of pansexual risk-takers.