Anatomy of a Mime: Ozon Explores the Seduction of Indifference
Decades before Hannah Arendt introduced her concept of ‘the banality of evil,’ Albert Camus...
Good Golly, It’s Dali: Dupieux Dreams Surreal in Distinctive Biopic
It seems surrealism’s pioneer Salvador Dali is experiencing something of a culturally concentric resurgence as...
Lyon Lies Bleeding: Mouret Explores L’amour Fou (Encore)
Even for those unfamiliar with the filmography of Emmanuel Mouret, his latest film, Three Friends will unequivocally...
Sex and Longing: Efira Shines in Zlotowski’s Portrait of Missed Opportunities
In a celebrated tradition of quietly personal characterizations French cinema is known for, Rebecca...
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.