If you've never watched Nelson Mandela dance, then you should know that
he does a modified Locomotion, pumping his elbows like pistons to the
immense, loving amusement of his people.
Since few of us at The Nation speak Thai, I'm going to refer to
my favorite filmmaker of the month as Joe, which is the name actually
used in this country by Apichatpong Weerasethakul.
If Elia Suleiman's face were a cartoon, then the single short, white
brush stroke dabbed into his black hair would perhaps be the beginning
of a thought balloon, perpetually forming above the l
The summer before 14-year-old Trent Lott entered all-white Pascagoula
High School in Mississippi, a 14-year-old black boy from Chicago named
Emmett Till convinced his mother to let him go down
Looking backward in the January chill, I feel my eyes shoot past the
films of 2002 toward a movie made some thirty years ago: a picture by
Martin Scorsese about violent, driven people in downto
I can think of no picture of recent years, other than Roman Polanski's
The Pianist, that has won the Palme d'Or at Cannes and yet
stirred neither controversy nor excitement.
Even without the aid of Smell-o-Vision, Charlie Kaufman's bedroom comes
across as dank.
November has been melodrama month at the movies. First Todd Haynes
brought us Far From Heaven, which he ought to have called
Imitation of Imitation.
Like a kid at an ice-cream counter, urging his friends to try the chocolate--like a writer of travel guides, warning tourists not to miss the Eiffel Tower--I come before you to praise Grand Il
It's rude of me to speak of Todd Haynes's new picture as if it were a
symptom; but then, he's the one who's always consulting doctors.