Caught between the death of film and a digital childhood, it would appear that cinema has developed a debilitating neurosis.
In an era where large-scale filmmaking is often careless and disposable, a high-profile work that takes itself seriously (let alone its audience) can feel like a relief.
I’m aware that I’m in a safe room with my materials, doing this thing that I love, while in the larger world there’s something really fucked up going on.
He lets the direct sound from his digital camera stand, so that everyone speaks in their own voices, and together give the film its title.
Tomboy paints that moment, poised on the cusp of adolescence, when make-believe can still be guileless.
To say Optic Antics, the first book devoted entirely to the films of Ken Jacobs, is long overdue would constitute a gross understatement.
Rossellini uses cheating, lying, stealing, and dying — the elements of melodrama — to reveal a new reality defined by surveillance and reconnaissance, occupation and militarism.
His best movies devour their own boundaries and turn ever outward: toward life and the stories by which we try to understand it.
We’d like to get polemical. We want to get argumentative. Film criticism has become toothless.
He scrawls the Hebraic name “Schechina” across the top of a canvas, pencils the digits one through ten on a stiffened white dress, and shouts.