Akiva Gottlieb | The Nation

Robert Bresson’s The Devil, Probably; Maurice Pilat’s Police; Leo McCary’s My Son John.

Until the final reel of celluloid is shot and projected, will every film’s primary subject be film itself?

Louis Malle’s Vanya on 42nd Street; Vera Farmiga’s Higher Ground; John Cassavetes’s Too Late Blues

Krzysztof Kieslowski’s Three Colors, Gavin O’Connor’s Warrior

The Complete Jean Vigo, Travis Wilkerson’s An Injury to One.

José Luis Guerín’s In the City of Sylvia, Tanya Hamilton’s Night Catches Us, Martin Scorsese’s New York, New York.

Jane Campion reconsidered.

James L. Brooks’s Broadcast News, Alan Rudolph’s Trouble in Mind, Jonathan Demme’s Something Wild.

For Jonathan Rosenbaum, the golden age of filmgoing is as dead as the drive-in, but cinephilia is thriving.

In his Letters from Fontainhas trilogy, Pedro Costa treats the balance of form and content as a moral imperative.