Bernardo Bertolucci has long fed off a cinephilia he appears to despise.
The name Shakespeare in Britain is rather like the names Ford, Disney and Rockefeller in the United States. He is less an individual than an institution, less an artist than an apparatus.
Apparently to McNamara's mortification, Errol Morris, whose film The Fog of War I discussed in my last column here, passes over his subject's thirteen-year stint running the World Bank, wh
Several generations of doomy, bookish youth have grown up
listening to the Cure.
Considered as a subset of the road movie, the post-Holocaust, return-to-Poland documentary has been a dismayingly static genre. Most of these films are journeys in only the physical sense.
The afterlife of Italian poet, novelist, critic and filmmaker Pier Paolo Pasolini brings to mind some familiar lines from Auden's "In Memory of W.B.
Colin MacCabe's new book is more a provocative polemic than a rounded biography, but it deserves the highest praise for being inspired by the belief that in the early 1960s Jean-Luc Godard grabbe
My dear friend and late Nation colleague Andrew Kopkind liked to tell how, skiing in Aspen at the height of the Vietnam War, he came round a bend and saw another skier, Defense Secretary R
About a third of the way through the long, long flashback that is Crimson Gold, someone mentions that the main character, Hussein, needs to work outdoors because of his claustrophobia.
Few of the good things that reward the rising--or risen--young artist have not fallen to John Currin in recent days.