The Hole Truth: Chabrol Explores What Lies Beneath the Chilly Idyll in Brittany
The continually clever and constantly rueful Claude Chabrol ended his stretch of...
Carnage Knowledge: Keating’s Halfhearted Shot at Grindhouse not a Fine Vintage
For his fourth feature, indie genre director Mickey Keating attempts a vintage crime/horror mash-up...
The more "international" body of tastemaker critics have anointed Todd Haynes' Carol, Hou Hsaio-Hsien’s The Assassin, George Miller's Mad Max, Sean Baker's Tangerine and...
In last year's section which included Ariel Kleiman's Partisan and Anne Sewitsky's Homesick, it was John Maclean's debut Slow West claimed the World Cinema...
The thrill of meeting Marjane Satrapi reminded me of being 6 years old at Disney Land when I met the living, breathing Cinderella. Except Cinderella was an actress with a blond wig and Marjane is the real woman behind her autobiographical graphic novel, turned movie, “Persepolis”. The distinctive mole on her nose and her dark sultry eyes rose off the page and appeared in front of me, smoking and speaking with a French accent.