One morning, Kind-Responsible-No-Baggage-Man isn’t in bed. He saunters in at 10AM with cappuccinos and he’s not wearing his mask. There’s a purple bruise ringed on his cheek like fish lips. “I need to tell you something,” he says.
The language in Mrs. Osmond is like the colors of autumn in New England. It’s brilliant even in its decay.
Nocturama, the provocative new film by Bertrand Bonello, opens with a handful of young Parisians performing wordless and labyrinthian maneuvers through the city’s Metro. They dump phones into wastebaskets, bear mysterious packages, and give each other silent, intimate looks.