— and it hinges on an unlikely friendship that could only exist from the movies. It’s the most Besson thing that is, was, or ever will be, and it also happens for being the best.

The legacy of “Jurassic Park” has led to a three-ten years long franchise that a short while ago strike rock-bottom with this summer’s “Jurassic World: Dominion,” but not even that is enough to diminish its greatness, or distract from its nightmare-inducing power. For your wailing kindergartener like myself, the film was so realistic that it poised the tear-filled question: What if that T-Rex came to life and a real feeding frenzy ensued?

Yang’s typically fixed however unfussy gaze watches the events unfold across the backdrop of 1950s and early-‘60s Taipei, a time of encroaching democratic reform when Taiwan still remained under martial legislation and the shadow of Chinese Communism looms over all. The currents of Si’r’s soul — sullied by gang life but also stirred by a romance with Ming, the girlfriend of 1 of its lifeless leaders — feel countrywide in scale.

The film’s neon-lit first part, in which Kaneshiro Takeshi’s handsome pineapple obsessive crosses paths with Brigitte Lin’s blonde-wigged drug-runner, drops us into a romantic underworld in which starry-eyed longing and sociopathic violence brush within centimeters of each other and reduce themselves within the same tune that’s playing over the jukebox.

Around the audio commentary that Terence Davies recorded for your Criterion Collection release of “The Long Day Closes,” the self-lacerating filmmaker laments his signature loneliness with a devastatingly casual sense of disregard: “As being a repressed homosexual, I’ve always been waiting for my love to come.

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

William Munny was a thief and murderer of “notoriously vicious and intemperate disposition.” But he reformed and settled into a life of peace. He takes a person last job: to avenge a woman who’d been assaulted and mutilated. Her attacker has been given hentaimanga cover from tube8 the tyrannical sheriff of the small town (Gene Hackman), who’s so established to “civilize” the untamed landscape in his very own way (“I’m creating a house,” he consistently declares) he lets all kinds of injustices materialize on his watch, so long as his own power is secure. What would be to be done about someone like that?

Sure, the Coens take almost fetishistic pleasure while in the genre tropes: Con gentleman maneuvering, tough man doublespeak, and also a hero who plays the game better than anyone else, all of them wrapped into a gloriously serpentine plot. And still the very finish of the film — which climaxes with one of the greatest last shots in the ’90s — reveals just how cold and empty that game has been for most of the characters involved.

Tarr has never been an overtly political filmmaker (“Politics makes everything far too easy and primitive for me,” he told IndieWire in 2019, insisting that he was more interested in “social instability” and “poor people who never experienced a chance”), but revisiting the hypnotic “Sátántangó” now that Hungary is inside the thrall of another authoritarian leader demonstrates both the recursive arc of current history, as well as full power of Tarr’s sinister parable.

(They do, however, steal among the list of most famous images ever from one of many greatest horror movies ever in a very scene involving an axe as well as a bathroom door.) And while “The Boy Behind the Door” runs away from sexy bombshell slut drilled wildly steam a little from the 3rd act, it’s mostly a tight, well-paced thriller with marvelous central performances from a couple of young actors with bright futures ahead of them—once they get xx videos outside of here, that is.

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Making the most of his background like a documentary filmmaker, Hirokazu Kore-eda distills the endless possibilities of this premise into a series of polite interrogations, his camera watching observantly as more than a half-dozen characters seek to distill themselves into just one perfect second. The episodes they ultimately choose are wistful and wise, each moving in its possess way.

There are manic pixie dream girls, and there are manic pixie dream girls. And then — 1,000 miles beyond the borders of “Elizabethtown” and “Garden State” — there’s Vanessa Paradis being a disaffected, suicidal, 21-year-outdated nymphomaniac named Adèle who throws herself into the Seine for the start of Patrice Leconte’s romantic, intoxicating “The Girl to the Bridge,” only for being plucked from the freezing water by an unlucky knifethrower (Daniel Auteuil as Gabor) in need of a new ingenue to play the human target in his traveling circus act.

Set from the present day with a bold retro aesthetic, the film stars a young Natasha Lyonne as Megan, an innocent cheerleader sent to a rehab for gay and lesbian teens. The patients don pink and blue pastels while performing straight-sex simulations under the tutelage of an exacting taskmaster (Cathy Moriarty).