Sorry to Mother You: Shim Takes Familiar Conceits to Logical Conclusions with Innocuous Debut
From Aronofsky to Roger Michell, from Pearl S. Buck to Georges...
The Killer Inside Me: Landon Continues Recycled Tropes for Latest Buffet of Thrills and Kills
Director Christopher Landon, now a revered alum at Blumhouse Productions...
Magic, the Gathering: Lister-Jones Misplaces a Mythos with Missed Opportunity Sequel
There’s no inherently proper way to engage in genre, which is what makes the...
Where Is It?: Sud Mines the Ethical Decay of the Privileged in Familiar but Fashionable Debut
Resorting to a continual, if varied tradition of remaking...
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.