From the unmistakable vibrant colors that adorn its fully realized characters (all played by real Spanish-speaking actors) to the soundtrack bursting with guitar-plucking, toe-tapping flavor, Pixar surprises nobody through its unwillingness to compromise and to let Coco stand out as the one-of-a-kind film that is (although it begs the question of why such a cultural touchstone would need a 21-minute lead-in by the “whitest” of Christmas specials in the grating Olaf's Frozen Adventure, but I digress).
There's no experience quite as enriching as watching a film that allows its surface narrative to betray a loaded and mystifying interior meaning that's both elusive and begging to be milled for interpretation.
k Ebeling's Along for the Ride, a portrait of self-destructive maverick artiste Dennis Hopper and the falls and rebounds of his post-Easy Rider career, aims to profile the director-actor from a position as of yet really seen attempted; intimately.
Why the Coens or Clooney could possibly care about suburbia enough to tackle it in such a way is beyond me, but what it resulted in is a film whose clear incompetence betrays its haphazard sense of self-importance.
“You can write anything once someone is dead; you can write a whole book of lies, and there's nothing we can do,” ruminates shock provocateur John Waters over the credits of the off-beat analysis of seminal Hollywood starlet Jayne Mansfield's final days.
The question of what exactly went wrong with the winter serial killer fiasco The Snowman will, I hope, puzzle critics and audiences alike for years because, even after seeing it in all its ludicrous glory, there is no satisfying answer.