Christian Pitzold’s haunting 2019 film, based on Anna Seghel’s masterful 1942 novel.
Harvey Roy Greenberg, MD
The pleasures of a story unfolded serially are ancient and ubiquitous.
How do people with a shred or more of superego assuage the pricks of an uneasy conscience knowing they are sliding down a slippery dark slope?
Inquiring about a patient’s favorite movie sometimes proves unexpectedly revealing.
The most scorching inditement of racism yet in film. Warning: spoilers.
Bingeing on news about the latest White House rumpus has escalated exponentially since the election. Whatever their political views, patients are haunted by an inchoate sense that the wheels are coming off the car, with nary a mechanic in site.
The game looks disarmingly simple. In fact, it’s alarmingly complex.
The sequel probes the big questions without flinging them in the viewer’s face. How does memory articulate with one’s sense of origin and purpose—and, above all, of death?
King is singularly adept at capturing the vicissitudes, mores, and speech of pre-teenagers (particularly boys) throughout his writing—most notably in one of his longest novels, IT.
What one brings to the table from one’s own life may figure prominently —and poignantly —in one’s response to a film score.