Cigarettes. Books. Acerbic aphorisms. (The kind Jean-Paul Sartre and BFF Holden Caulfield would have folded into fortune cookies.) Those are the basic ingredients of Hal Hartley’s droll cinema of self-deprecating intellectualism and hipster sentimentality. If Hartley’s fondness for bohemian touchstones seems so 20th-century today -- yo, bro, seen my Kindle? -- it was intentionally, willfully anachronistic back in the 1980s... More >>>