was on the list of first big movies to feature a straight marquee star as an LGBTQ lead, back when it absolutely was still considered the kiss of career death.
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Back during the days when sequels could really do something wild — like taking their significant bad, a steely-eyed robot assassin, and turning him into a cuddly father figure — and somehow make it feel in line with the spirit in which the story was first conceived, “Terminator 2” still felt unique.
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The climactic hovercraft chase is up there with the ’90s best action setpieces, and the end credits gag reel (which mines “Jackass”-amount laughs from the stunt where Chan demolished his right leg) is still a jaw-dropping example of what Chan put himself through for our amusement. He wanted to entertain the entire planet, and after “Rumble in the Bronx” there was no turning back. —DE
Out on the gate, “My very own Private Idaho” promises an uncompromising experience, opening over a close-up of River Phoenix getting a blowjob. There’s a subversion here of Phoenix’s up-til-now raffish Hollywood image, and The instant establishes the level of vulnerability the actors, both playing extremely sensitive male sexual intercourse workers, will put on display.
During the films of David Fincher, everybody needs a foil. His movies normally boil down for the elastic push-and-pull between diametrically opposed characters who reveal themselves through the tension of whatever ties them together.
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No matter how bleak things get, Ghost Pet’s rigid system of belief allows him to maintain his dignity while in the face of deadly circumstance. More than that, it serves like a metaphor for the world of independent cinema itself (a domain in which Jarmusch had already become an elder statesman), plus a reaffirmation of its faith inside the idiosyncratic and uncompromising artists who lend it their lives. —LL
And yet everything feels like part of the larger tapestry. Just consider all of the seminal moments: Jim Caviezel’s AWOL soldier seeking refuge with natives on the South Pacific island, Nick Nolte’s Lt. Col. trying to rise up the ranks, butting heads with a noble John Cusack, along with the company’s attempt to take Hill 210 in on the list of most involving scenes ever filmed.
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There are manic pixie dream girls, and there are manic pixie dream dinotube girls. And then — one,000 miles over and above the borders of “Elizabethtown” and “Garden State” — there’s Vanessa Paradis as a disaffected, suicidal, 21-year-aged nymphomaniac named Advertèle who throws herself into the Seine on the start of Patrice Leconte’s romantic, intoxicating “The Girl about the Bridge,” only to be plucked from the freezing water by an unlucky knifethrower (Daniel Auteuil as Gabor) in need of a fresh ingenue to play the human target in his traveling circus act.
The crisis of identification on the heart of Kiyoshi Kurosawa’s 1997 international breakthrough “Heal” addresses an essential truth about Japanese Modern society, where “the nail that sticks up gets pounded down.” Nevertheless the provocative existential problem on the core from the film — without your occupation and your family and your place while in the world, who are you currently really?