Kathryn Reklis explores film, TV, and more
It’s hard to talk about the transformative power of being onstage without sounding ridiculous. Sing Sing and Ghostlight show us instead.
Civil War and Fly Me to the Moon share an awareness of how malleable and fragile our sense of shared truth is in a world dominated by images.
It recalls the raunchy movies of the early 2000s—even as it offers a fresh vision of what it means to grow up.
Wildcat is less a biopic than a luminous exploration of the tension in Flannery O’Connor’s artistic and spiritual life.
It’s hard to dramatize the evils of patriarchy without falling into melodrama or historical difference.
Deadloch is one of the funniest, smartest, most unexpected delights I have watched in a long time.
Donald Glover and Francesca Sloane’s remake is in some ways the inverse of the 2005 original.
This used to be the form of most movies, but now it feels rare and precious.
Both May December and Eileen are meant to make us a little queasy as our moral judgments come up short.
In Martin Scorcese’s telling of the Osage Indian murders, all the violent contradictions of history unfold in domestic intimacy.
In the raunchy high school comedies of my youth, sex was a forbidden land. Not in Sex Education and Bottoms.
We all live in Oppenheimer’s world now, and it is one that constantly invents the Ethan Hunts and Indiana Joneses of our fantasies.
What started as a summer feel-good movie has opened discussions about embodiment, death, feminist utopias, and whether change can come through consumer goods.
Asteroid City might be the most Anderson of all his films, and I came to it like an acolyte who is doubting the mystery.
These movies about influential consumer objects aren’t really origin stories at all.
Judy Blume’s gift to the world is her insistence that young people can be trusted as capable moral agents.
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