Search: Starring Ross

Indivisible is the best film to come out of Italy this year.

A wistful hippy daydream which goes on to become very dark indeed, Llansó’s fable unfolds gracefully thanks to his command of the different genres that make up its constituent parts.

The film has a pristine, timeless quality.

Though the film is slow in places and Andreotti's ambiguity can sometimes leave the viewer feeling too disconnected, there are moments of real brilliance.

Despite its heart being in the right place, I Do never does live up to its promise, thanks to melodramatic machinations and often preachy dialogue.

Sometimes funny, sometimes very tense, and ultimately poignant too.

Mushy as a melted doughnut and so absurd it's cute.

As wild as it seems at times, the film is deeply grounded in an emotional truth for each of the protagonists.

Almodóvar exudes a new found confidence.

The jokes are overplayed and feeble to the point of embarrassment.

To enjoy this kind of adventure, you have to get lost in Guy Maddin's house, because he has made a ghost of a film - 'but a ghost isn't nothing.'

Schlesinger's North is constructed in smudgy shades of grey. Rain falls heavily; steam billows up from unseen trains; the streets are always wet, sometimes bright cobbles, sometimes just dirt.

A thoroughly enjoyable confection that will amuse the kids and provide some decent laughs for those of us for whom attempting a roundhouse kick would require pain medication and physical therapy (I know, I tried).

The weirdness of it is genuinely disturbing, building a sense of fear and impending danger.

The vocal cast is star studded. Trouble is they are given too little to speak.

The humour, while liberally spread, is always tempered with more sombre notes.

The idea of a world in which characters may find more comfort in alienation than connection is something that speaks as much to our society as it reflects the universe of 1960s Italy.

I don’t know what irritated me more: the film’s cosy predictability and thematic conservatism or its insufferably mawkish tone.

This is a small niche film, not broad enough or funny enough for the mainstream, carried off on a tiny budget, but it means well.

Alessandro Morace, who plays Tommi, is a real stand-out, enormously capable and effortlessly charming.

Spielberg, as he is very good at, goes out on a limb to walk a tightrope of his own making between melodrama and sinewy storytelling.

The film could be called "old fashioned" but that is rarely a bad thing.

The film has a simple message - bureaucracy is a bad mother.

Director Tiffany Bartok doesn't shy away from the depressing aspects of Kevyn's story, nor obfuscate his responsibility for parts of what went wrong.

What once was fresh, now is stale.

Gueye is quite a find.

It's like a suicide. And there's nothing to look at

When it becomes a horror movie it is a good one, but when it is not a horror movie it is a great one.

Whitman respects and relishes in Austen's creation but is no slave to it, inventing additional characters to help the story flow.

The film is directed with an air of dignity and the performances are deserving of eternal praise, but as a child of the movies, I was sucked helplessly into a comatose state of boredom.

Blatantly retraces killing grounds so old and familiar that at times it seems little more than a fan boy's compendium of favourite moments from the last half century's worth of slash-and-dash mayhem.

Margot ought to be a plum rôle, but Kidman withers it to a prune.

The splintered pain of grief interrupted marks out the directorial debut of Reed Morano.

Sort of hints at a subsequent romance.

A man and his son take a little donkey to market. Showing at EIFF - World Shorts 1

The script is cleverly done, the key relationships well and economically drawn; and while this is clearly comedy, it does not pull its punches.

This rawness makes the film a difficult watch in places but allows viewers to observe the grieving process up close.

This is a film that lets words sizzle more than anything.

Gilliam’s script cannot quite stand the excesses of his own imagination.

The puppetry here is brilliantly done.

The narrative depth also accrues gently, like sedimentary layers, as the film progresses, looking deceptively slight at first but gradually building into something more profound.

You can get a way with a lot when you deliver it with this much panache.

There is nothing erotic about any of it and an 18 certificate seems overzealous.

There’s a dry wit here which fans of Nordic noir will appreciate, though in places it deprives the film of much-needed energy.

You don't need the sheet music to know that this is a familiar tune and the film does lean into all the expected emotional beats heavily.

In one of the finest performances of his career, Sean Penn is understated to convey finer feeling, yet passionate on the soap box to an inspirational degree.

Kier, Goldblum, and Lavant are never less than fantastic in their portrayal of modes of crazed, unreliably self-assured masculinity.

Penn is powerful; Bacon is sharp; Robbins is troubled; Fishburne is alert. Having them here is a privilege and a pleasure

At its best, My First Film feels very disjointed in its apparent lack of any formal rigour, and it seems that Anger is using exactly that with the intention to sell it as an indisputable truth.