The Cranes Aren’t Flying: Zvyagintsev Unleashes Primordial Tendencies
“They always end disastrously,” Kate Burton advises Diane Lane of extramarital affairs in Adrian Lyne’s 2002 erotic...
Baby Machines: Delpero Designs Tapestry of Women’s Miseries During WWII Italy
Despite the associations suggested by its title, Maura Delpero’s sophomore film Vermiglio is a...
Touch of Class: Ullmann’s Update of Classic Text Ultimately Lifeless
There are a scant few equals to the texts of playwright August Strindberg’s, his 1888...
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.