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“Deep Cover” is many things at once, including a quasi-male love story between Russell and David, a heated denunciation of capitalism and American imperialism, and ultimately a bitter critique of policing’s impact on Black cops once Russell begins resorting to murderous underworld tactics. At its core, however, Duke’s exquisitely neon-lit film — a hard-boiled style picture that’s carried by a banging hip-hop soundtrack, sees criminality in both the shadows plus the Solar, and keeps its unerring gaze focused within the intersection between noir and Blackness — is about the duality of identification more than anything else.
Where’s Malick? During the seventeen years between the release of his second and third features, the stories on the elusive filmmaker grew to mythical heights. When he reemerged, literally every able-bodied male actor in Hollywood lined up being part of your filmmakers’ seemingly endless army for his adaptation of James Jones’ sprawling WWII novel.
Charbonier and Powell accomplish a lot with a little, making the most of their minimal spending budget and single location and exploring every sq. foot of it for maximum tension. They establish a foreboding temper early, and efficiently tell us just enough about these Young ones and their friendship to make just how they fight for each other feel not just plausible but substantial.
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auteur’s most endearing Jean Reno character, his most discomforting portrayal of the (very) young woman over the verge of the (very) personal transformation, and his most instantly percussive Éric Serra score. It prioritizes cool style over frequent sense at every possible juncture — how else to elucidate Léon’s superhuman ability to fade into the shadows and crannies with the Manhattan apartments where he goes about his business?
“He exists now only in my memory,” Rose said of Jack before sharing her story with Monthly bill Paxton (RIP) and his crew; from the time she reached the end of it, the late Mr. Dawson would be remembered with the entire world. —DE
The relentless nihilism of Mike Leigh’s “Naked” can be a hard pill to swallow. Well, less a tablet than a glass of acid with rusty blades for ice cubes. David Thewlis, within a breakthrough performance, is on the dark night from the soul en route to the tip in the world, proselytizing darkness to any poor soul who will listen. But Leigh makes the journey to hell thrilling enough for us to glimpse heaven on the way there, his cattle prod of a film opening with a sharp shock as Johnny (Thewlis) is pictured raping a woman in a very dank Manchester alley before he’s chased off by her family and flees to the crummy corner of east London.
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Making use of his charming curmudgeon persona in arguably the best performance of his career, Invoice Murray stars since the kind of man nobody is reasonably cheering for: clever aleck Television set weatherman Phil Connors, who's got never made a gig, town, or nice lady he couldn’t chop down to size. While Danny Rubin’s original script leaned more into the dark things of what happens to Phil when he alights to Punxsutawney, PA to cover its yearly Groundhog Day event — for your briefest of refreshers: that he gets caught in a time loop, seemingly doomed to only ever live this Unusual holiday in this awkward town forever — Ramis was intent on tapping into the inherent comedy of your premise. What a good gamble.
The ’90s began with a revolt against the kind of bland Hollywood item that people might eliminate to view in theaters today, creaking open a small window of time in which a more commercially feasible American unbiased cinema began seeping into mainstream fare. Young and exciting directors, many of whom are now major auteurs and perennial IndieWire favorites, were given the sources to make multiple films — some of them on massive scales.
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