All the world’s a stage here, but nowhere as much as that house. It is where these characters give the performances of their lives—trying desperately to tell their stories before the curtain comes down, the set is redesigned, and the next generation takes the lead.
Where the dissolution of animal rights and the creeping fascism of the Wizard’s regime was a subplot of the first "Wicked," it is firmly the focus here.
So much of the joy of Oliver Hermanus’ "The History of Sound," the new film coming to The Triplex this week, comes from the moments when we sit with the characters and let this music wash over us.
"Bugonia" reads like a plea to break free of the doomed mindset that increasingly feels like the status quo. We have to do something, anything, to save this world—no matter how crazy it may seem.
We are celebrating this subgenre all October with our "Gorecore" series, which continues tonight with "House," a surreal spectacle from director Nobuhiko Obayashi.
The clothes may have changed and the technology may be sleeker, but the central question at the core of this genre—how do we move forward in a world that feels wrong?—remains as urgent as ever.
Safdie’s film is a testament to the sensitivity and humanity beneath all of that violence and wreckage—urging us to step away from the ring to see the whole picture.
While TV and movies can blur into the digital noise of everyday life, books demand focus and invite an intimate exchange with an author’s voice. They are direct, portable, inexpensive to make, and easy to share—which makes them both impactful and difficult to control.
We usually think of comedy as escape, a chance to laugh and forget. And while there is always room for big, broad comedies, films like "Sorry, Baby" build a different kind of resilience.
Hearing a modern audience react to "Jaws" is proof that you don’t need CGI spectacle to create an outsized impact: 50 years later, Spielberg's malfunctioning mechanical shark is still scarier than most of today’s digital monsters.
When Pacino screamed “Attica” in 1975, audiences felt its sting because they knew what it meant. Today, it plays differently—a plea from the past, brimming with anger, asking us not to forget.
