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Heckerling’s witty spin on Austen’s “Emma” (a novel about the perils of match-making and injecting yourself into situations in which you don’t belong) has remained a perennial favorite not only because it’s a wise freshening on the classic tale, but because it allows for so much more outside of the Austen-issued drama.
A miracle excavated from the sunken ruins of a tragedy, and also a masterpiece rescued from what appeared like a surefire Hollywood fiasco, “Titanic” may very well be tempting to think of as being the “Casablanca” or “Apocalypse Now” of its time, but James Cameron’s larger-than-life phenomenon is also a lot more than that: It’s every kind of movie they don’t make anymore slapped together into a fifty two,000-ton colossus and then sunk at sea for our amusement.
“Jackie Brown” can be considerably less bloody and slightly less quotable than Tarantino’s other 1990s output, nonetheless it makes up for that by nailing the entire little things that he does so well. The clever casting, flawless soundtrack, and wall-to-wall intertextuality showed that the same male who delivered “Reservoir Puppies” and “Pulp Fiction” was still lurking behind the camera.
The old joke goes that it’s hard for a cannibal to make friends, and Chook’s bloody smile of a Western delivers the punchline with pieces of David Arquette and Jeremy Davies stuck between its teeth, twisting the colonialist mindset behind Manifest Destiny into a bonafide meal plan that it sums up with its opening epipgrah and then slathers all over the screen until everyone gets their just desserts: “Eat me.” —DE
Chavis and Dewey are called upon to do so much that’s physically and emotionally challenging—and they frequently must do it alone, because they’re separated for most from the film—which makes their performances even more impressive. These are clearly strong, intelligent kids but they’re also sensitive and sweet, and they take reasonable, affordable steps in their endeavours to flee. This isn’t considered one of those maddening horror movies in which the characters make needlessly dumb choices to put themselves more in hurt’s way.
“Rumble from the Bronx” could be set in New York (even though hilariously shot in Vancouver), but this Golden Harvest production is Hong Kong into the bone, and the 10 years’s single giddiest display of why Jackie Chan deserves his Regular comparisons to Buster Keaton. While the story is whatever — Chan plays a Hong Kong cop who comes to the Big Apple for his uncle’s wedding and soon finds himself embroiled in some mob drama about stolen diamonds — the charisma is off the charts, the jokes link with the amazing danica with curvy natural tits enjoys a wild sex power of spinning windmill kicks, plus the Looney Tunes-like action sequences are more amazing than just thai street whore loves being creampied by foreigners about anything that experienced ever been shot on these shores.
did for feminists—without the car going from the cliff.” In other words, set the Kleenex away and just enjoy love mainly because it blooms onscreen.
That issue is essential to understanding the film, whose hedonism is solely a doorway for viewers to step through in search of more sublime sensations. Cronenberg’s course is cold and scientific, the near-continuous fucking mechanical and indiscriminate. The only time “Crash” really comes alive double penetration is in the instant between anticipating Dying and escaping it. Merging that rush of adrenaline with orgasmic release, “Crash” takes the vehicle for a phallic image, its potency tied to its potential for violence, and redraws the boundaries of romance around it.
helped moved gay cinema away from being a strictly all-white affair. The British Film Institute rated it at number fifty in its list of the highest one hundred British films from the twentieth century.
Spielberg couples that vision of America with a way of pure immersion, especially during the celebrated D-Day landing sequence, where Janusz Kaminski’s desaturated, sometimes handheld camera, brings unparalleled “you're there” immediacy. The best way he toggles scale and stakes, from the endless chaos of Omaha Beach, for the relatively small fight at the end to hold a bridge within a bombed-out, abandoned French village — still giving each fight equivalent emotional weight — is true directorial mastery.
Gus Van Sant’s gloriously unhappy road movie borrows from the worlds of author John Rechy and even the director’s individual “Mala Noche” in sketching the humanity behind trick-turning, closeted street hustlers who share an ineffable spark while in the darkness. The film underscored the already evident talents of its two leads, River Phoenix and Keanu Reeves, while also giving us all many a cause to swoon over their indie heartthrob status.
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Maybe it’s fitting that a road movie — the ultimate road movie — exists in so many different iterations, each longer than the next, spliced together from other iterations that together produce a sense of a grand cohesive whole. There is beauty in nikki benz its meandering quality, its emphasis not on the type of conclude-of-the-world plotting that would have Gerard Butler foaming at the mouth, but within the consolation of friends, lovers, family, acquaintances, and strangers just hanging out. —ES
Claire Denis’ “Beau Travail” unfurls coyly, revealing just one indelible image after another without ever fully giving itself away. Released with the tail close with the millennium (late and liminal enough that people have long mistaken it for a product from the 21st century), the French auteur’s sixth feature demonstrated her masterful capability to construct a story by her personal fractured design, her work often composed by piecing together seemingly meaningless fragments like a dream you’re trying to recollect the next working day.