Since Miles Davis died on September 28, 1991, the merchandising machine has been in overdrive, pushing repackaged classics (Kind of Blue, Sketches of Spain), niche compilations and
Mel Gibson's movie is a blood libel against the Jewish people.
From the moment when Mel Gibson began promoting The Passion of the Christ--was it only ten years ago?--he has insisted that his goal was to be true to the Gospel text.
The story of American popular music contains several moments when a career that has gone south is dramatically resurrected before an awed and grateful public.
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.