Around the two-hour mark of “American Honey,” I sat in the theater fidgeting and doing something I (almost) never do — covertly checking the time on my phone.
It’s not the cosmos that has the power in this film. It’s the men.
Why do we pursue art— watch Polanski movies, listen to Wagner, read Eliot — than to feel something, some fleeting emotion that brings us closer to the center of ourselves?
“Author” isn’t about unmasking JT. The mask comes off within the first thirty minutes of the film.
It’s absolutely absurd and absolutely incredible.
Few other years in my (admittedly short) life warrant such a strong reaction as 13.
Sachs shows what friendship looks like without letting the audience in on its secrets and specificities.
If “Morris From America” is anything, it’s charming.
If the pop culture reset I got this summer has taught me anything, it’s that it doesn’t matter. I’m not an expert. But that doesn’t matter to me anymore.
It’s hard to find tragedy in something you can’t believe.