Fedora

This one seethes with authentic nostalgia; Wilder's attempt not merely to eulogize earlier styles but to revive them feels somewhat embalmed.

Wilder may have been a genius, but not everything a genius does is a work of genius. Fedora is a curiosity, not a lost masterpiece.

The deliberate and sometimes dismaying anachronisms are signs of a deep, unshakable commitment to a personal aesthetic -- a commitment that is sometimes more moving than anything in the film itself.

A shamefully underrated film, Fedora is Wilder's testament and one of the most sublime achievements of the '70s.

Trust Wilder to know what he's doing, even during the deliberate clichés. See it like that, and I bet you'll like it. See it with a straight face, and you'll think it's boring and obvious.

Fedora is old-fashioned with a vengeance, a proud, passionate remembrance of the way movies used to be, and a bitter smile at what they have become.

There's a lot of awkwardness to Fedora, from a sluggish pace to an awful bit of last-minute overdubbing that mars two performances, but there's a lot of fascination in it.

This wearying nostalgia for golden-age moviemaking aside, Fedora exposes, through a major plot twist I won't give away, the off-screen pathologies that constitute the nightmares of the dream factory.

The offhand jabs at the dissolution of orthodox craftsmanship in 1970s cinema are overwhelmed by a deeper core of autocritique played out in the film's downward trajectory.

Gallant Hollywood-Babylon concerto

Defiantly and proudly old-fashioned both in style and content, weaving an (intentionally) campy melodrama about the mysterious suicide of a faded movie queen into a spellbinding meditation on cinema and the price of manufactured illusions.

Brilliant homage to a bygone age of glamor.