Punk documentaries have a weakness for canonization, the slow embalming of sweat into legacy. 40 Years of F**in’ Up* has...

Make-believe has a paper trail here, and the paper matters. James Litchfield’s Alphabet Lane, a darkly funny Australian relationship drama,...

Redaction turns memory into architecture: walls, sealed doors, corridors ending in black ink. Peter Sichel, the German Jewish refugee turned...

Country stardom is filmed here as a labor of polish: the hat angled right, the bell bottoms doing their mythic...

Chaiken cuts the Lunachicks like a band that never learned to enter a room quietly. The drums arrive first, then...

The couch scenes make old tennis footage behave like surveillance tape. Chris Evert and Martina Navratilova sit beside each other,...

Light behaves like a guilty witness in Avalon Fast’s Camp. It never settles on Emily as innocence or damnation. It...

Gold dust looks almost obscene in Toto Gesell’s weathered palm: too small to justify the damage, too bright to dismiss....

A $500 HOA fee feels less outrageous once the neighborhood association starts issuing demon-slaying duties. That is the best joke...

A marriage proposal dies in public, then the universe tries to follow it. That is the cleanest joke in Weekend...