To a jaded soul, something like Mon Oncle is not what most moviegoers of 2002 would consider “real entertainment.” But in its time and place, it was, and at repertory theaters still is; find any of Tati’s features playing at a cinematheque, and they’ll play to their audience. So would Punch-Drunk Love. Its pleasures are its own, and Anderson remains one of the few filmmakers of his generation for whom no new direction should be a surprise. His instincts have yet to land him in anyplace boring.
November 14, 2016