Richet, whose last movie was the superfluous remake of Assault on Precinct 13, knows the vocabulary of '70s crime movies: saturated colors, split screens, self-conscious music cues.

The ghosts of the past linger literally and figuratively in a world where innocence is gone for good.

Moments after the lights came up on the première of Harmony Korine's Trash Humpers at the Toronto International Film Festival last fall, a twentysomething in a jaunty chapeau jumped to his feet and asked, "So, like, what was the point of the movie?"

As you watch boats filled with flickering candles scud across the water, or a detachment of icebound Russians slide through the snow, it's hard not to feel a sense of longing for a more munificent era.

Kino's The Complete Metropolis contains nearly a hundred instances of restored footage, ranging from brief reaction shots to entire sequences.

Even a decade ago, Jules' apparent bisexuality would have come with a healthy dose of hang-wringing, but Cholodenko and her co-screenwriter Stuart Blumberg breeze right past the "is she or isn't she?" agonizing of identity politics.

More than an exploration of dreams, which are always private and sealed-off, Inception's closest analogue is to the shared dream of the movies, a tantalizing fantasy whose incompleteness begs us to fill in the gaps.

Everyone Else feels less like voyeurism than symbiosis, merging spectator and spectacle until the boundary between them starts to dissolve.

Former fascist collaborators now eyeing a move toward global branding, the Recchi family is, or would prefer to be, unstuck in time.