Following the most bizarre awards show snafu ever, (after presenters Warren Beatty and Faye Dunaway flubbed the Best Picture honor when they announced the...
Terms of Amusement: Frankel’s Sentimental Platitudes Ensconce Profoundly Foolish Melodrama
The folly of Will Smith is he’s a performer seemingly unable to differentiate between authentic...
When the Rainbow is Enuf: Jenkins Returns with Exceptional, Moving Character Portrait
It’s been eight years since indie filmmaker Barry Jenkins debuted his exceptional directorial...
My Left Fist: Fuqua’s Sports Drama a Familiar, Emotionally Charged Comeback
After another recent dalliance in action genre schlock, director Antoine Fuqua returns with the...
Half Nelson: Chadwick’s Biopic Stretched Thin
An attempt to cover fifty years in the life of South African President Nelson Mandela in the time span...
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.