Reviews

The film toggles between exorcism rituals and therapy sessions, building tension with the clinical detachment of a sociological case study. Hell is bursting at the seams, demons surface in hospital wards, and incels are cast as the most accessible conduits for evil. It may feel like shirking responsibility, but it’s far more forthright than The Pope’s Exorcist.

The secret to a compelling story lies in preserving its mystery. As long as that veil stays intact, it fuels endless debate and speculation. But once those secrets begin to unravel—even if you reveal them with care—the story’s original balance is inevitably tipped over.

Unlike many commercial queer films, this one expands its lens beyond romance. Through the protagonist’s efforts to build an LGBTQ+ history museum, it brings urgent conversations about visibility and rights into the mainstream. At the same time, its reflections on family, education, and intimacy help imagine a more compassionate and equitable world.

A great film can spark a thousand interpretations. Legend has it that this was the director’s dream—and he simply filmed it…

This is what nonconformism at its best looks like: no epic time span needed, yet characters are rendered in full, vivid detail. A flawless film—its pacing and score are world-class.

The theme of this film is not as obscure as in In the Realm of the Senses; instead, it probes the line between desire and love. That may sound academic, but Nagisa Ōshima’s approach is both profound and engaging—that’s the mark of a true master filmmaker.

An outstanding film with excellent storytelling, while also being richly artistic. While its color palette might not be as vivid as In the Realm of the Senses, in many ways it surpasses it with even more romantic flair.

Shot almost entirely in natural light, the cinematography is breathtaking. The melodrama of the story fades away under its visual splendor… it’s simply too beautiful. Malick’s cinematography reaches its pinnacle, making it an extraordinary theatre experience.

The film strings together endless scenic shots beneath a poetic voiceover and uses almost no dialogue, while also downplaying the plot. The whole thing flows like an excerpt from Beethoven's symphony.

The narrative unfolds in a classic three-act structure—pre-war, wartime, and aftermath—all getting enough screen-time to fully develop. By the end, when you reflect on those carefree small-town days, the stark contrast with the horrors of battle is breathtaking. The Russian-roulette sequence is so intense it feels suffocating. And that young Meryl Streep—she’s beautiful—like an angel descended to Earth.

The film unfolds in a series of vignettes, spotlighting pivotal moments before, during, and after the war. We see how war transforms each soldier and their hometown, and ultimately an entire nation. That lavish wedding scene seems celebratory at first, but viewed through the final act, it reads as an ironic prophecy—much like the fate of the Russian soldier who dies in a game of Russian roulette.

This is as Shaw Brothers–style as a John Woo film gets. Even standing alongside the studio’s peak-era classics, it doesn’t lose a step. Woo’s knack for emotional storytelling is already on full display; it may not have the absolute polish of his later masterpieces, but his talent is impossible to miss.

This is friendship at its finest. The bond here feels more honest and direct than anything in John Woo’s later work. That wordless connection between two guys—the kind of casual, instinctive camaraderie—it’s downright enviable.

Anger and hatred breed a desire to kill, and psychotherapy not only fails to ease these emotions but actually triggers and accelerates them. While many filmmakers symbolize and metaphorize abstract emotions, David Cronenberg does the opposite: he gives abstract emotions a tangible form, bringing them to life through scifi horror, presenting them as pure monsters.

From the moment we’re born, we would go on to create our own histories. In just an instant, our personal story begins. Some of us suffer from painful and dark memories which eventually give rise to inhuman monsters. Perhaps that is precisely the message the director intends to convey.

This early Steven Spielberg film brims with warmth; its structure, pacing, and humor are pure ’80s vibe. While it marks Hepburn's final performance, it sadly never reached the classic status that Ghost would achieve three years later.

Even if you’re a believer in ghosts, romance, and miracles—and you love Steven Spielberg and Audrey Hepburn—the plot still feels way over the top.

It’s a psychological horror story, the heroine has this perculiar illness which forbids her from living a normal life. But at its core, the director seems to warn us to confront ourselves rather than blindly bow to our surroundings.

This is a film you have to “feel” rather than rationalize. Its atmosphere, performances, and cinematography are all top-notch. The heroine’s emotional volatility, paranoia, and unease feel like a modernday syndrome born from a lack of meaning and reference points in life. Todd Haynes’s portrayal of female-centric themes is incredibly remarkable, and I genuinely love this movie.

Louise Chevillotte’s performance is outstanding. The film showcases the bold French spirit and completely reshapes my view of exotic dancers—the camera captures their authenticity and grace without fear of societal judgment, letting the beauty of the body bloom freely.