Spitball Army

The tolerance lesson is obvious from the start, but this French animation charms throughout. Vivid character quirks for a bunch of anthropomorphs.

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Charlton Heston’s Michelangelo as mercurial artist? Okay. Rex Harrison’s Julius as papal warlord? History lesson for me.

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Not an admirer of her music, but Bjork completely inhabited the character of Selma (or vice versa). A mesmerizing final half-hour.

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Stark black & white Hungarian film intersperses rapid cuts of multiple random images throughout. A dying woman’s last memories? So unusual.

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Revisited this as I feared I was unfair to it years ago. I wasn’t: still a piece of trash masquerading as art. I rate it four zzzz’s.

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Francis Coppola continues his experiments with non-linear narrative, color and symbolism. Enjoyable, if obtuse, horror tale.

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John Ford’s epic, stretched so three-hours thin that Alex North’s bombastic score bludgeons holes right through it.

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Aims to portray poetry in death and succeeds. Javier Bardem fascinating, as always. Perfect companion to The Diving Bell and the Butterfly.

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Everything about this L.A. noir is so over the top, it nearly exists in its own genre universe. Let’s call it “camp noir.” A femme fatale with a stately British accent; a character named Jojo; a mystery drug that revives gassed convicts to life. Nurse: Why don’t you talk to me anymore? Aren’t you listening? […]

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Hard to believe that a normal woman like Joan Crawford would fall for such an obvious creep as Jack Palance. Oh. Right.

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