ONE MIGHT CALL Ira Sachs a writer’s filmmaker. His subtle scenarios adhere to—and glory in—the confines of the same reality the writer apprehends through language, a reality whose moral composition and problems of subjectivity are as tangible as its spatial and visual parameters. Each of his seven films, dramas that could be called “domestic” were they not so finely connected to the outer politics of their time and place, takes the distinctive form that has become the stamp of his filmmaking: the presentation of a surface that the film breaks and penetrates with a patient, relentless momentum, until its truth is revealed.
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