“La Belle Noiseuse” (Jacques Rivette, 1991) Jacques Rivette’s four-hour masterpiece about the act of artistic generation turns the male gaze back on itself. True, it’s hard to think of an actress who’s needed to be naked onscreen for the longer duration of time in a single movie than Emmanuelle Beart is in this just one.

“You say to the boy open your eyes / When he opens his eyes and sees the light / You make him cry out. / Stating O Blue come forth / O Blue arise / O Blue ascend / O Blue come in / I am sitting with some friends in this café.”

Considering the myriad of podcasts that stimulate us to welcome brutal murderers into our earbuds each week (and how eager many of us are to take action), it may be hard to assume a time when serial killers were a truly taboo subject. In many ways, we have “The Silence on the Lambs” to thank for that paradigm change. Jonathan Demme’s film did as much to humanize depraved criminals as any bit of contemporary artwork, thanks in large part to a chillingly magnetic performance from Anthony Hopkins.

Set in a hermetic surroundings — there are no glimpses of daylight in the least in this most indoors of movies — or, somewhat, four luxurious brothels in 1884 Shanghai, the film builds delicate progressions of character through comprehensive dialogue scenes, in which courtesans, attendants, and clients go over their relationships, what they feel they’re owed, and what they’re hoping for.

by playing a track star in love with another woman in this drama directed by Robert Towne, the legendary screenwriter of landmark ’70s films like Chinatown

We can easily never be sure who’s who in this film, and whether the blood on their hands is real or simply a diabolical trick. That being said, 1 thing about “Lost Highway” is absolutely fixed: This is the Lynch movie that’s the most of its time. Not in a bad way, of course, however the film just screams

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Besson succeeds when he’s pushing everything just somewhat also much, and Reno’s lovable turn during the title role helps cement the movie being an city fairytale. A lonely hitman with a heart of gold plus a soft spot for “Singin’ during the Rain,” Léon is perhaps the purest movie simpleton to come out of the decade that produced “Forrest Gump.

A non-linear eyesight of nineteen fifties Liverpool that unfolds with the slippery warmth of a Technicolor deathdream, “The Long Day Closes” finds the director sifting through his childhood memories and recreating the happy formative years after his father’s death in order to sanctify the wonderful teen blonde gal scarlet red feels well on top love that’s been waiting there for him all along, just behind the layer of glass that has always kept Davies (and his less explicitly autobiographical characters) from being in the position to reach out and touch it.

The dark has never been darker than it is in “Lost Highway.” In fact, “inky” isn’t a strong enough descriptor for that starless desert nights and shadowy corners humming with staticky menace that make Lynch’s first Formal collaboration with novelist Barry Gifford (“Wild At Heart”) the most terrifying movie in his filmography. This is actually a “ghastly” black. An “antimatter” black. helena my girlfriends mom needed a lil help A black where monsters live. 

Adapted from the László Krasznahorkai novel on the same name and maintaining the book’s dance-impressed chronology, Béla Tarr’s seven-hour “Sátántangó” tells a Möbius strip-like story about the collapse of the farming collective in post-communist Hungary, news of which inspires a mystical charismatic vulture of a person named Irimiás — played by composer Mihály Vig — to “return from the useless” and prey on the desolation he finds Among the many desperate and easily manipulated xxxbp townsfolk.

had the confidence or the copyright or whatever the hell it took to attempt something like this, because the bigger the movie gets, the more it seems like it couldn’t afford to get any smaller.

His first feature straddles both worlds, exploring the conflict that he himself felt to be a young gentleman in this lightly fictionalized version of his own story. Haroun plays himself, an up-and-coming Chadian film director situated in France, who returns to his birth country to attend his mother’s funeral.

David Cronenberg adapting a J.G. Ballard novel about people who get turned on by motor vehicle crashes was bound to become provocative. “Crash” transcends the label, grinning in perverse delight as it sticks its fingers into a gaping wound. Something similar happens from the backseat of an auto in this movie, just 1 within the cavalcade of perversions enacted via the film’s cast of pansexual risk-takers.