Nolan Gear

There is a raging maniac urgency underneath the cucumber-cool surface of the limited-release Indie film — you know the type. We presuppose these “quiet” and “thought-provoking” and often “foreign” films to have a stable niche audience of art school students and masochistic

I am consistently mystified by the American box office — and not just those absurd moments when soul-dismemberingly bad movies retain the number-one slot for a second weekend (2008’s “Beverly Hills Chihuahua” or Nick Cage’s 2007 “Ghost Rider” — ugh). No, more

In the manner of all those pedantic jerks you’ve already been reading and despising for three weeks, I will begin by telling you what I’m not talking about. This column is not about the lovely Kate Winslet, three-time champion of Glamour Magazine’s