185 stories by "Gerald Peary"
Let the Sunshine In is French filmmaker Claire Denis's one-note ode to the power of love even when, in this case, love stinks like dead fish.
Claire's Camera is enjoyable and charming, but it's definitely minor Hong, made on a lark at Cannes.
Food porn? You know it when you see it.
Red Sparrow isn't great in any way, but, at two hours and twenty minutes, we do get our money's worth of old-school genre entertainment.
The film becomes a made-for-TV trial melodrama, with actors delivering oratorical speeches and the plot spinning several times with contrived, made-to-shock revelations.
Could Dorothy Malone be the only person in the world to have dated both Sinatra and Liberace?
Credit director Elisabeth Subrin for being resourceful in incorporating her cast's real-life situations into her storytelling.
How palpable is the combat in Nowhere to Hide!
Robert Frank had dared overturn the central conceit of the great photographs of the Farm Administration 1930s; that the poor were noble creatures.
After 36 years of twice-a-week pickup basketball at the Cambridge Y at Central Square, I recently cleared my locker and said adieu.
Like going to Mecca, shouldn't every committed cinephile get to the Carthage Film Festival once in a lifetime?
This downer comedy is a triumphant entry into the botched, washout male category of cinema.
The Newburyport Documentary Film Festival is leisurely and unpretentious -- and addictive.
Everyone who loves documentary, who cherishes the Maysles brothers' legacy, should rush to the Brattle Theatre to see In Transit.
It's probably unfair, but attending the Flaherty, I kept seeing in my mind the pig Napoleon and his attack dogs in George Orwell's Animal Farm.
The well has evaporated for much of new American independent cinema.
Two of the best feature documentaries this year at the Provincetown Film Festival were gay-themed.
This time that we're getting a too-sweetened take on Hasidism, and maybe of Jewish Orthodoxy in all of its manifestations.
The IFFBoston somehow gets even better with each incarnation.
Cynthia Nixon is a great Emily Dickinson, so deeply angry, so heartbreaking in her fool's life of stoic suffering.
Writer-director Nacho Vigalando blows to bits his love story and morphs his movie into a totally bonkers horror flick.
The Red Turtle is a poem to individual visual artistry and not to the anonymous machinery of technology.
I ask you, thinking of The Founder: is it just a coincidence that the name Donald is imbedded in the name McDonald's?
Seven essayists in a new anthology take on a daunting task: characterizing styles of acting through the history of American film.
Mikita Brottman gets raw, often very funny, and unexpected responses to the masterpieces she puts before her prisoners.
