Sentences with phrase «frame of film feels»

It's a rare film where ever frame of film feels vital to the whole, each moment adding to or enhancing this deliciously tawdry tale of flyblown killers and tragic lovers.

Not exact matches

I felt the need to state that after my viewing of The Killing of a Sacred Deer, because this is a film that will truly make people not see another movie for weeks or just simply turn it off after the very first frame (I'm not exaggerating).

You have to be in a specific sort of mood, and in a peculiar frame of mind, to fully immerse yourself into a film like «The Fits» and walk away feeling like you've just seen something special.

Physically, much of the movie takes place in the sewers (with part of the movie filmed in an actual sewer), and though the frame is dark, the setting is vivid - you can almost smell it and feel the damp.

Yes, he constructs various shots as paintings in a frame, but he does so with such a stylish, subtle touch the device never feels forced, and works on an almost subliminal level to enhance the richness of the film's scope.

One of the tricks they employ to make the film «feel as if it is a documentary» is to refocus the zoom and frame while the camera is running.

That's a good description of the final film — one in which you can see glimmers of the Shane Black script underneath (hardboiled characters, snappy dialogue, bursts of shocking violence, a Christmas setting) but surrounded by a lot of unnecessary bullshit to the point where you can almost feel the egos of the movie superheating the frame and melting away what was once originally there.

By far the biggest disappointment of the festival is Abbas Kiarostami's posthumous film 24 Frames which frankly does not feel anything like a Kiarostami feature.

Filmed gorgeously in black and white and often framed with wide vistas, the evocative drama «1945» sometimes has the look and feel of a Western — only in this case, the ultimate showdown pits a pair of Orthodox Jewish visitors against Hungarian villagers who fear that postwar vengeance is coming their way.

THE DVD Fox Family releases My Friend Flicka on DVD in a beautiful full - frame video transfer (preserving the original aspect ratio of the film) that feels sixty - years - old without actually looking it.

It helps that the framing device cleverly makes the episodic nature of the film feel not only natural, but essential in telling the story.

And until then, the film is so remarkable at synching its picturesque style to Moonee's seemingly limitless freedom that the one time they do fall out of sync feels jarring, almost offensive: In long shot, Moonee and her friends charge past a series of stores and toward the promise of ice cream, and even after the children have exited the frame, the camera lingers on the sight of an obese person on a scooter riding in the other direction, the sound of the scooter going over a speed bump nothing more than a punchline, an easy potshot, at the expense of a person who isn't even a bystander to Moonee's life.

This feeling is only heightened by the film's framing device, the conversation between FBI agent Wesley Doyle (the late Powers Boothe) and Fenton, the killer's son (played by Matthew McConaughey) who narrates much of the film, with it feeling like it's going to also double as a serial killer origin story, albeit one with a big twist that we think we can see coming a mile off.

The only real misstep is an ending that feels altogether too tidy given the film's frayed edges, but there lurks a sense of breath - stealing unease even within its final frame.

In a tonally bizarre framing device that never feels right, the film uses John Holmstrom (Josh Zuckerman), founder of Punk Magazine, as the audience proxy into the venue's happenings, and it also uses his publication's cartoonish aesthetic as narrative punctuation.

Army of One is so bad and so thoroughly without merit that it actually made me like Charles» earlier movies less in retrospect, because it feels like the ugly, snide arrogance tainting every frame of Army of One is present in those earlier, better films, albeit in smaller, less toxic doses.

Anderson knows how he wants his films to look and feel, as he plays the role of cinematographer, creating a smooth hue that is palpable in almost every frame.

As witty in conception as execution — Eddie Marsan swinging into frame, taping up a wound is priceless — one feels the cost of the fight, and feels for Theron, like nowhere else in the film.

The joy he takes in making cinematic spectacles of varying types can be felt in every frame of film he shoots, and I find it difficult not to get a little excited whenever he has a new effort on the verge of hitting theatres.

That question of identity is further complicated, though never interestingly elucidated, by the film's final act, which returns us to the framing device and charts Bordán's frustrations with the shoot and with Levy's aggressive insistence that the actress share her character's feelings for her director / co-star.

But the inert interview framing narrative does no favors to the film or Natalie Portman's straining lead performance, and Larraín's attempts to convey the spirit of the era feels like watered - down Todd Haynes, minus the fascination with mystique, glamour, and forms that can make Haynes» work enticing.

Importantly, the house truly feels like a home, every room features old Bali and Javanese framed prints, collected antique batiks and decorative timber pieces and selected books, music, films and a variety of family board games.