Like weaker Happy Madison fare – with an excessively-lengthy runtime to boot – the humor of Ken Marino’s How to Be A Latin Lover is not rooted in the characters, who’re treated as mere pawns to facilitate stale gags.
Like weaker Happy Madison fare – with an excessively-lengthy runtime to boot – the humor of Ken Marino’s How to Be A Latin Lover is not rooted in the characters, who’re treated as mere pawns to facilitate stale gags.
Vanessa Gould’s Obit is a documentary about the oft-forgotten people who document other people’s lives: obituary writers for the New York Times.
Paolo Virzì’s Like Crazy (not to be confused with Drake Doremus’ Like Crazy from a few years back. R.I.P. Anton Yelchin) is a lighter, less substantive — and far inferior — mixture of One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest and Thelma & Louise that too often feels like a vanity project for the goddess Valeria Bruni Tedeschi, who’s admittedly ace here (if you’re unfamiliar with her work, check out Human Capital).
Terence Davis’ A Quiet Passion is a quietly-radical biopic.
A ludicrously rose-colored — literally in regards to the stunning visuals, figuratively in terms of the irritating narration’s writing, delivered by John Krasinski (cash that check!) — cinematic depiction of nature.
Harvey Weinstein’s Gaby Dellal’s 3 Generations is a prime example of how excessive studio meddling (in this case, by the notorious Weinstein Company) motivated by an undue obsession with box office and/or Oscar positioning often results in abominably-incomprehensible editing (there are two editors here! TWO! 2! For a 90-minute character dramedy!), sapping what could’ve been a perfectly fine, effectively-intimate human story of its natural humanity, thereby becoming more reminiscent of an ineffectively-transparent corporate product.
Raoul Peck’s I Am Not Your Negro deserves full-throated commendation for potentially introducing the national treasure that was James Baldwin to the masses.
While Blumhouse Productions may command most of the public’s attention, IFC Midnight keeps churning out equally, if not more noteworthy horror flicks, such as Liam Gavin’s A Dark Song.
I was initially going to call back to a repeated formulation of mine by describing Terry George’s The Promise as “Masterpiece Theatre (Terry’s specialty!), Armenian-Genocide-with-a-ginormous-budget edition,” but honestly, likening this schlock to a quasi-hallowed institution feels unfair to the latter.
Every moment of Michal Marczak’s All These Sleepless Nights (great title, by the by) is a symbolic riddle left to the audience to piece together for themselves.
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