Gruesome tenderness, explosively joyful.
Don’t hate him because he’s ambitious.
Auteur of the unforgettable fork-dance of dinner rolls.
Entertainment, grand landscapes, and dialectical troubles.
Performances congruent with camera.
His horror movies were unimaginably eerie.
He discovered a universe out of space-time.
His films assume a state of undoing.
In 1968, a year of riots, he reached his ascendancy.
He explored the near impossibility of connection.
His Cold War movies predict Pynchon’s seriocomic acuities.
Director of quirky, moving, political, philosophical documentaries.
He defined or refined the dialogue comedy, the war picture, the detective yarn, and more.
Dedicated to pursuing the truth about sex and desire.
“An art of ambiguity, contradiction, uncompleted gestures.”
He “invented a new language, true to the nature of film.”
One of the greatest comedic actors and directors of all time.
He gave Surrealism its smell.
“I’m a whore. I go where I’m kicked.”
He loved a good story, no matter what form it took.
A gift for pacing and episodic structure, a deadpan sense of humor.
His flat sub-ironic tone is at once his method and “message.”
Deliverance from chaos and meaningless is their obsession.
Revenge and cruelty are the wicked core of his films.