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was among the first significant movies to feature a straight marquee star as an LGBTQ lead, back when it absolutely was still considered the kiss of career Loss of life.
It’s challenging to explain “Until the tip with the World,” Wim Wenders’ languid, considerably-flung futuristic road movie, without feeling like you’re leaving something out. It’s about a couple of drifters (luminous Solveig Dommartin and gruff William Harm) meeting and un-meeting while hopping from France to Germany to Russia to China to America within the run from factions of legislation enforcement and bounty hunter syndicates, but it really’s also about an experimental technological know-how that allows people to transmit memories from just one brain to another, and about a planet living in suspended animation while waiting to get a satellite to crash at an unknown place at an unknown time And perhaps cause a nuclear disaster. A good part of it truly is just about Australia.
Even more acutely than either of your films Kieślowski would make next, “Blue” illustrates why none of us is ever truly alone (for better even worse), and then mines a powerful solace from the cosmic mystery of how we might all mesh together.
The terror of “the footage” derived from watching the almost pathologically ambitious Heather (Heather Donahue) begin to deteriorate as she and her and her crew members Josh (Joshua Leonard) and Mike (Michael C. Williams) get lost while in the forest. Our disbelief was effectively suppressed by a DYI aesthetic that interspersed low-quality video with 16mm testimonials, each giving validity to the nonfiction concept in their very own way.
The end result of all this mishegoss is usually a wonderful cult movie that displays the “Try to eat or be eaten” ethos of its individual making in spectacularly literal trend. The demented soul of the studio film that feels like it’s been possessed from the spirit of a flesh-eating character actor, Carlyle is unforgettably feral like a frostbitten Colonel who stumbles into Fort Spencer with a sob story about having to take in the other members of his wagon train to stay alive, while Guy Pearce — just shy of his breakout fkbae achievement in “Memento” — radiates sq.-jawed stoicism as a hero soldier wrestling with the definition of braveness in the stolen country that only seems to reward brute energy.
Shot in kinetic handheld from beginning to finish in what a feels like a single breath, Jean-Pierre and Luc Dardenne’s propulsive (first) Palme d’Or-winner follows the teenage Rosetta (Emilie Duquenne) as she desperately tries to hold down a job to assist herself and her alcoholic mother.
It’s easy to make high school and its inhabitants seem silly or transitory, but Heckerling is keenly aware about the formative power of those teenage years. “Clueless” understands that while some of its characters’ concerns are small potatoes (Certainly, twinks begging for daddy gay sex and boy with machines some people did drop all their athletic equipment during the Pismo Beach disaster, and no, a biffed driver’s test isn't the conclude of the world), these experiences are also going to add to the way they strategy life forever.
“Admit it isn’t all cool calculation with you – that you’ve got a heart – even big clit if it’s small and feeble and you can’t remember the last time you used it,” Marcia Gay Harden’s femme fatale demands of protagonist Tom Reagan (Gabriel Byrne). And for all its steely violence, this film provides a heart as well.
Tarr has never been an overtly political filmmaker (“Politics makes everything too basic and primitive for me,” he told IndieWire in 2019, insisting that he was more interested in “social instability” and “poor people who never experienced a chance”), but revisiting the hypnotic “Sátántangó” now that Hungary is while in the thrall of another authoritarian leader demonstrates both the aloha tube recursive arc of modern history, and the full power of Tarr’s sinister parable.
The dark has never been darker than it is actually in “Lost Highway.” In actual fact, “inky” isn’t a strong enough descriptor for that starless desert nights and shadowy corners humming with staticky menace that make Lynch’s first official collaboration with novelist Barry Gifford (“Wild At Heart”) the most terrifying movie in his filmography. This is actually a “ghastly” black. An “antimatter” black. A black where monsters live.
And but everything feels like part of the larger tapestry. Just consider every one of the seminal moments: Jim Caviezel’s AWOL soldier seeking refuge with natives on a South Pacific island, Nick Nolte’s Lt. Col. trying to rise up the ranks, butting heads with a noble John Cusack, as well as company’s attempt to take Hill 210 in on sexxx the list of most involving scenes ever filmed.
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David Cronenberg adapting a J.G. Ballard novel about people who get turned on by auto crashes was bound to be provocative. “Crash” transcends the label, grinning in perverse delight as it sticks its fingers into a gaping wound. Something similar happens while in the backseat of a car or truck in this movie, just 1 within the cavalcade of perversions enacted through the film’s cast of pansexual risk-takers.