Review
Alive Inside, the winner for Best Documentary at the Festival, had the audience gasping and in tears.
What’s not to adore about this super-friendly, hedonistic, 24-hour street party, what summer resident John Waters celebrates as “a gay fishing village,” and what I might label, oxymoronically, a “queer New Orleans.”
The beauty of this documentary is that even as it makes you laugh, the story’s essential sadness remains. Though it is very fast-paced, the film makes you stop and think — it’s as unsettling as it is charming.
Echo’s Bones is a fascinating immersion, somewhat inept in its means, but sincere and gravely serious, in a subject that Samuel Beckett made increasingly his own.
By the end of the documentary, you’re in no doubt that Whitey Bulger was beneath dignity. Though not in his own eyes. There’s even vanity left in a crook who trims his white beard so scrupulously.
Classic rock (which is really a radio format, not a musical genre) is a strange animal, which has spawned an audience that apparently cares more about hit songs and memories than about who’s actually onstage.
Rufus Wainwright is like that: unfiltered family love and dysfunction threaded through whammo pop tunes wrapped in the sequins of more than a little clear-to-those-who-know celebrity.
Louie is a difficult show to advertise because it is the only example of art-television at the moment.
Cassandra Speaks is yet another dazzling vehicle for actor Tod Randolph, who excels in etching brilliant stage portraits of famous, complicated women.
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