This relentlessly cruel rejiggering makes every Evil Dead film before seem like Sunday school.
Barrio Triste relies on a mood of disaffected melancholy, if without a clear direction.
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There’s a warmth to the film that cuts through its disillusion with the industry that created it.
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Bernstein’s gifts as a storyteller are less narrative than atmospheric.
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The film understands that historical truth and personal memory are inseparable.
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The band’s first album in a decade is more haunted than its arena-sized choruses suggest.
The album sounds beamed in from an earlier decade, but it runs deeper than nostalgia.
The track is a bustling pop-rock song bolstered by a clangy guitar riff and searing synth line.
McElwee discusses, among other things, his new film and staring down the loss of his son.
These films are generous reminders that cinema isn’t always about diagnosing global problems.
The show is at its best when it examines the questions that Susanna Kaysen did in her memoir.
The common refrain this season has been one of despair, of theatrical death by dearth.
The play is a metaphor for a life in the arts, though also possibly love, or living a purposeful life.