Rammstreisand

It was tasting great, but all of a sudden it **** was tasting very good, the texture and flavors were well balanced, but then someone invisible opened a window and, as I was preparing for the last four spoonfuls, everything curdled before my eyes, leaving wilted cream in the center of the plate and a kind of bitter whey around the edges.

I could handle a marathon of Bela Tárr's complete oeuvre with less boredom than this magnificently photographed three-hour trailer gave me.

Some actors will say no to excellent scripts because the films are not so well payed, and then they'll say yes to this.

Even though I love the early Bogdanovich, Hal Ashby and company, I don't usually enjoy the contemporary approach to this kind of classicism. That said, it's hard to say what's not to like about this movie. It's so well written, so well acted by everyone, so elegantly directed and so NOT a lame tearjerker that I can only surrender. I'll see it again soon.

This movie tries to be a two-way discussion, but ends up becoming the very thing it criticizes.

What astonishes me the most is that anyone can see how **** U.S. Americans are if this gets ANY kind of REAL ugly.

Left me as cold as a dog's muzzle at dawn, under a fine drizzle that will pass before the sun comes up.

A magnificent waltz of ironies, the likes of which America will never see again. A brilliant satire on the effects of mass media that is even more relevant today than it was in 1993. The formal lacerations of the looney tune that Stone plucks from Tarantino's bland, verbose script take the film to a pinnacle of comic poetry and some of the most iconic images of 1990s America.

The best thing in Ridley Scott's artistically/historically fallacious Napoleon is Joaquin Phoenix's smile when he's told he's finally going to be exiled to St. Helena.

A24 has released a very good looking book about (or around) this movie. It is a bit strange, because they have not released such companion pieces to the certified hits of their catalog, but the truth is that the book is incredibly more interesting than the movie, at the same time shedding some light on what kind of sub-product and first-time director we are dealing with here.1. The photos in the book look great, not because they are well photographed, but because their subjects are gorgeous, just like the real characters in this book (like the lady who eats clay).2. The book has the shadow of Raven Jackson's editorial hand all over it (biased praise from a former teacher in the foreword mentions an episode in which the then-student refuted an editing suggestion by claiming "That's not me" - while it's true that filmmakers need to follow their gut, the episode is told as an about-face in your understanding of where Raven Jackson stands as a first-time director.)3. The book includes Jackson's to-do list for the film, with goals like "stay close, stay wide" and other esoteric platitudes that make film-making sound like a recipe for gingerbread.Still, the movie feels and looks vague, often lost, and tends to cover up its flaws with a thick layer of pretentiousness, while never fully engaging the viewer with either a narrative or a mood you can grasp. It's basically 7-11 visual poetry, three for the price of one.

The cleanest teeth and the trimmest beards I've ever seen after 60 days stranded in the middle of nowhere. Also, the oldest looking 22 year olds I can remember seeing in a 2+ hour movie this side of The Bridge on the River Kway. 15 minute closing credits.

For someone who came to the world's attention **** a peach, Chalamet actually makes a good Julie Andrews.

Nach fünf Minuten war mir das "gutten tag"-Lied, das auf die ebenso peinliche Parallele zwischen dem Klang des Orchesters und dem Beginn der Unterrichtsstunde folgt, sehr peinlich. Aber ich habe weitergeschaut, und ich muss sagen, dass ich dieses Überlegenheitssyndrom, das so eng mit der deutschen Kultur verbunden ist und das deutsche Filme im Allgemeinen zu vertreiben versuchen, schon lange nicht mehr in einem Film gesehen habe.

Dear metacritic, can you please add the black dot option to the rating system? And, just for this film, something even lower (E.g, -3). Thanks in advance.

I'm not very spiritual and I don't smoke dope, so the whole thing made me feel like a furry at a nudist camp.

It was tasting great, but all of a sudden it **** was tasting very good, the texture and flavors were well balanced, but then someone invisible opened a window and, as I was preparing for the last four spoonfuls, everything curdled before my eyes, leaving wilted cream in the center of the plate and a kind of bitter whey around the edges.

Everything I read about this film is such an absurd lie that I have to wonder who has been writing it. The film is extremely unfunny, painfully uneven, and every attempt at a joke is told twice. It comes across as an unedited rough cut of a short film by a first-time director. The acting is atrocious, except for Andre Cabral, who is very charismatic and has the most interesting character. The musical numbers **** big time, especially the one with the children (what was the point of that, by the way?). Three ideas could be potentially charming, but get lost in the rusty execution: the living paintings, the exchange of racial slurs and the forest of ****. But it's all so clumsy and pathetic that I cringed for the entire unbelievably long 67 minutes. Oh well.

While the first harsh, brutally descriptive shots of Nação Valente do the best to set you in a certain place and historical context, rest assured that nothing in this film is what it seems. Although there is a fair share of time specifications (a date on screen, different types of telephones), Conceição’s setting for Nação Valente is curiously **** in previous efforts, Conceição manages to deliver highly effective storytelling without hardly any dialogue, like an invisible observer, whilst building up tension and using ambiguity to convey his points. It’s a work with a haunting, fable-like quality, a narrative that might as easily be about seven medieval samurais were it not for the intrusion of modern weapons and record players. Its floating sense of loose time, its gentle pans across the African landscape as Zé tries to remember his mother, all feel a world apart from modernity. That ancient heart is perhaps the whole purpose of the film, which at its final quarter holds a mirror to our face as we are left wondering in shame if we have indeed evolved at all since the crusades. While Conceição’s previous films began to pencil in his worldview, Nação Valente’s perspective is drawn in ink. It doesn’t feel like an experiment, or playful in the autobiographical manner of Serpentarius; it is a vision that blooms as an allegory. A film of despair and optimism, cruelty and salvation - and its own clandestine sense of humor - Nação Valente contains philosophical and spiritual dimensions, and a unified visual poetry, that qualify it as Conceição’s first masterpiece. It's a highly ambitious work which succeeds on its purposes as both a work of history, unstinting in its concrete depiction of political hatred and fear, and a portrait of the metaphysics of tyranny.

What’s profound, and incendiary, about “All the Beauty and the Bloodshed” is the way that Laura Poitras excavates the story of how deeply Nan Goldin’s photographs are rooted in trauma. There was always a life force to the photos; she started taking them in Boston in 1973, where she first bonded with what was then thought of as the gay subculture, along with the demimonde of drag queens (who could be arrested just for walking down the street), and her bone-deep recognition of the humanity of the friends she photographed was a tonic. But the movie goes back to tell the story of Goldin’s clueless, domineering, and repressive parents, and of her older sister, Barbara — a free spirit who came along in suburbia too early for the ’60s, and was institutionalized for having “impulses” we would now view as healthy. She committed suicide at the age of 18, in 1964 (when Nan was 11), by laying down on train tracks. Goldin viewed her sister’s death as, in effect, a murder. And what she was drawn to, first in Boston and then, in New York, amid the grungy world of the Bowery, were people who wore their violence and damage on the outside: in their clothing, their drug use and exhibitionistic abandon, the look in their eye of godless and maybe glamorous hunger. Lurking behind Goldin’s work is the sense of life itself as predatory.

Menkes is a snake-oil seller and it's painful to see, in this film, that she actually believes she can get away with a superficial analysis of decades of sex in film by quoting her own (at times deeply uninteresting) work as a reference to how things should be done.

Regardless of what people may say about Serra's arrogance and self-delusion, this film brilliantly captures a zeitgeist, in the way that TV series like The White Lotus or films like Triangle of Sadness only suggest. There is a sense of doom, a malaise so starkly real that the film simply doesn't need much more to captivate the viewer. It is a modern film in a way that few others have been in recent years. And it will prevail as a model for the ages. The film that captured the spirit of the 2020s.

The old Tony Curtis version with the splitscreens was great fun. This one tries to do the best with its female lead and Keira Knightly holds it together well. But it's a shame that there is no chemistry whatsoever between her character and Carrie Coon's character. The duo could have been the new Green Hornet and Cato.