Mid-way through the 1990s, maverick auteur Walter Hill returned to the undiluted Western template mythos (something which underlined nearly all his directorial efforts) with...
The only reality more mind blowing as concerns 8 Million Ways to Die, other than its unenthusiastically rendered characterizations from an sterling cast, is...
Tis Better to Give: Noyce’s Adaptation Too Little Too Late in YA Dystopic Cinema
In today’s onslaught of dystopic film franchises dominated by adaptations of...
Filling The Void: Jacobson and Silverbush Eye Hunger
While the United States continuously extends its charitable hands to famished communities the world over, we often...
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.