Saturday, January 8, 2011
Welcome to "Saturday Night at the Movies," a weekly feature in which I recommend an older title that you can go watch, right this very minute (provided you have Netflix Instant).
From October 2002: Let me make this as plain and simple as I possibly can: Punch-Drunk Love is a perfect movie. Perfect, perfect, perfect. This is an odd, off-balance, daring little movie that never steps wrong once in its entirety (an unfortunately short 89 minutes). It swims across the screen, propelled by the pure bliss of a master filmmaker at the top of his game, and those who don’t like it don’t deserve it. A gift like this is wasted on those who are incapable of experiencing the joys it offers.
Friday, January 7, 2011
Grown Ups, for Chrissakes. Its domestic numbers were barely better than those of Killers, which was basically a JV version of the same movie.
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
The Times of Harvey Milk, The Celluloid Closet); every word is taken from transcripts, previous writings, and interviews. “In that sense, it is like a documentary,” the opening titles inform us. “In every other sense, it is different.” What they have cooked up is a kind of documentary-docudrama-literary hybrid, a clever hopscotching of poetry performance, first-person narrative, and courtroom drama. It is, indeed, different, a film that dispenses with the tropes of the biopic and forges its own eccentric path. Not all of its contrivances work; not all of its beats are successful. But it is a passionate picture, a live wire, and that counts for something.