The anti-climactic climax, though, rescues the film from obnoxious whimsicality.
This relentlessly cruel rejiggering makes every Evil Dead film before seem like Sunday school.
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Poignantly, McElwee wrestles with the perils of personal documentary filmmaking.
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Barrio Triste relies on a mood of disaffected melancholy, if without a clear direction.
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There’s a warmth to the film that cuts through its disillusion with the industry that created it.
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The album sees the singer-songwriter moving in a different direction.
The album doesn’t see the rapper experimenting with his skull-rattling sound very much.
The band’s first album in a decade is more haunted than its arena-sized choruses suggest.
McElwee discusses, among other things, his new film and staring down the loss of his son.
These films are generous reminders that cinema isn’t always about diagnosing global problems.
The show is at its best when it examines the questions that Susanna Kaysen did in her memoir.
The common refrain this season has been one of despair, of theatrical death by dearth.
The play is a metaphor for a life in the arts, though also possibly love, or living a purposeful life.