Along Hong Kong road metal exists a suave sentimentality that only Wong Kar-wai can pave. Performances are absolute, spicy and sincere seraphic romantics that ultimately reach heaven. There's a solitary style that come with each stage in the film, unrivaled and worth-the-watch more than once.
Being Wes Anderson's bloomed flower that slowly dies, it's a film that's bleak, beautiful and exceedingly bizarre. By Murray's crudeness and Dafoe's diffidence, we never draw back from the deadpan manifestations that an ocean-set film doesn't usually create, even in some of the shoddy climaxes.
Stellar woven textiles, karpets, nimble greetings and prepossessing blinks moralize Sayat-Nova's tableaus in vibrating alto tootles. Being an ageless subversion of cinema, it's an indecipherably celestial film that keeps on giving no matter how much time you put into it.
Sweet and simple, this indie film tells the story of a perfectly dysfunctional family that doesn't meet any larger-than-life ideas, rather a blithe panorama of a seemingly despairing family. Every sentence carries a unique & humble sarcasm that makes one big & bad apple, rather a family.
Beloved bubbles, glorious goldfish and the peerless potency of the youth establishes oneness along the fine Tehranese rugs of the South. Past economical disturbances and twitchy educators, a honeyed quality of benevolence stretches through each and every neighborhood, each & every painful stride, an honest fortune.