Anyone who believes himself to have been a revolutionary or a deeply committed radical during his student-demonstration days in the late sixties is likely to find The Big Chill despicable.
Trading Places is reminiscent of the kind of “classic” that turns up on TV at Christmastime, and it looks like a Christmas classic on a TV set that needs adjusting.
A nearly perfect work. The film is bathed in beauty, removed from the banalities of short skirts and modern-day streets and shops, and removed in time, it draws us closer.
A lean, impressive piece of work. Nicholas Kazan’s script, which is based on Patty Hearst’s own account, Every Secret Thing, comes across as bilge-free.
What I saw was a rat’s nest of a movie—all flashbacks and rain. Eastwood has been conscientious: he hasn’t commercialized the material.
Back to the Future Part II is all manic and wacky. It’s all twists.
Paris. Violin-maker Stéphane and his friend Maxime have been business partners for many years, but both now take their friendship as given and probe little into each other’s lives. One day, Maxime tells Stéphane he is in love with Camille, a promising young violinist…
Blood Simple has no sense of what we normally think of as “reality,” and it has no connections with “experience.” It’s not a great exercise in style, either.
The Coen brothers’ No Country for Old Men casts an ominous and mournful spell from the first shot. Over scenes of a desolate West Texas landscape, an aging sheriff (Tommy Lee Jones) ruminates on the new viciousness of crime.
I think Monsieur Verdoux is one of the best movies ever made, easily the most exciting and most beautiful since Modern Times. I will add that I think most of the press on the picture, and on Chaplin, is beyond disgrace.
Milos Forman trudges through the movie as if every step were a major contribution to art, and he keeps the audience hooked the same way people were hooked by Hollywood’s big, obvious, biographical epics.
Krzysztof Kieslowski’s Decalogue is a series of ten films, each one slightly less than an hour long, made for Polish TV in 1988-1989
Barry Lyndon is utterly the opposite of the loose, improvised movies which are so popular with many critics these days. Every detail of it is calculated; the film is as formal as a minuet.
A chief trouble with Martin Scorsese’s new film is that it has to strain to be a Scorsese film. Certain graphic qualities have marked most of his work, and as with any director of personality and style, those qualities had become as natural to him as breathing. But in Bringing Out the Dead, the formerly natural seems forced, redemptive, almost salvaging.
Anyone ignorant of Lynch who sees The Straight Story will need an extra mite of patience to allow its beauty to unfold; others will be curious from the start about why this unconventional filmmaker chose this material, and that curiosity will speed up the unfolding.
This latest Star Wars has the same basic effect as the other three: the sense that it was made not only for children but for the belief in many adults that they are still kids at heart.
Eyes Wide Shut is a catastrophe—in both the popular sense and the classical sense of the end of a tragedy. Everything in Kubrick that had been worming through his career, through his ego, and through his extraordinary talent swells and devours this last film.
Films like Top Gun bring out the pharisee in many of us. We deplore the ethos that these films promote at the same time that, somewhere deep in us, we’re glad that at least some people live by that ethos.
Wings of Desire constantly articulates the impossibility of finding any meaning in anything. At the same time, it’s a love-story message movie.
Top Gun is a recruiting poster that isn’t concerned with recruiting but with being a poster.
The Piano, garlanded with Cannes Festival prizes, is an overwrought, hollowly symbolic glob of glutinous nonsense