Each vignette is a high-wire act, teetering along the razor’s edge separating shame and desire, passion and violence, actualization and obliteration.
Weather takes an atmospheric view of dread, from domestic to existential, that is particular to our 21st-century life.
Never Rarely Sometimes Always is something of a procedural, except the procedure here isn’t a police investigation or anything along those lines, it’s an abortion.
Fantastic Fungi is also a portrait of a community of mushroom obsessives—who journalist Eugenia Bone beautifully describes as, “bloated pleasure-seekers with a scientific bent.”
The town of Bacurau fights back, they do some damage, and it feels like a victory for its characters and for viewers, a blueprint for imminent direct action and self-defense.
If a good performance is one that resonates, then Collective Dreaming at MICA’s BBOX theater March 6 and 7, was spectacular.
Baltimore filmmaker Marnie Ellen Hertzler’s Crestone feels like a great piece of outré journalism. It found the sweet spot of making you feel as though you’re there watching something happen and commenting on it all only when necessary.
A less cloying way for “mainstream” movies to ponder #MeToo, an encouraging trend in Hollywood movies
In Flourish, Malech's poems rarely alight anywhere near where they begin—often introducing unexpected themes into the fray.
What looks like a staid costume drama is more like if Chantal Ackerman got ahold of a Merchant-Ivory movie.
What choices do we have now and what future will we end up with?
Who are these people? What is their relationship? Why is it so damn awkward? It's an engaging hook for the audience that fits nicely with the farcical Clue-inspired supernatural whodunnit that follows in the second half of the one-act play.
Lola Pierson, who wrote the text and directed the show, frequently had the audience laughing—often at the very confusion that opera (and language) might perpetuate.
Walking through Delita Martin's solo exhibition, Calling Down The Spirits, felt like I was flipping through my grandmother’s photo albums, seeing intimate details of people that I could never know: a turn of the neck, an upward cast of an eye.