Kevin Costner scowls and darts around the dubious thin line between "racism" and un-sugarcoated "truthfulness" that only anti-P.C. wingnuts actually believe exists.
Project Almanac delivers the same misogynistic, faux-modernistic jolts of trashy humor and labored plotting that typify the films of co-producer Michael Bay.
The film's criticism isn't primarily rooted in satire, but rather in fury and condemnation for those who seek to be gods while shamefully feigning to follow and praise one god.
The action-movie pyrotechnics succeed only at reinforcing Simon West's macho bona fides and condescendingly forcing Jason Statham back into his wheelhouse.
Aleksei German's final film is choreographed with a Felliniesque social grandeur, but tethered to a neorealist's eye for detail and quotidian matters of social justice.
Girlhood is so keyed to the minutiae of its teenage protagonists' lives, it's as if the film can't stop itself from behaving like they do.
It may channel the loose, adrenaline-fueled lives of pilots, but the film's inconsistent, often impassive study of this intriguing real-life adventure feels half-told.
It splits its time evenly between half-heartedly pretending it's an allegory for our war on terror and pretending that it's not.
The characters shout themselves hoarse, but they don't really say anything, and it isn't long before we feel like hostages ourselves, bound by the filmmakers' strained moral outrage.
The feeling here was perhaps intended to be impressionistic and elusive, but the result is instead rambling and unfocused.
When Xavier Dolan's tremendous empathy for the abandoned, medicated, and economically stressed is given full visual flight, it's easy to get lost in the rush.
Peter Strickland charges full-tilt into the objectifying whims of his fantasies in order to somehow reach the other end of perception.
Rob Cohen's The Boy Next Door flips the gender switch on Fatal Attraction and calls it a day.
Daniel Barnz's film is a study of grief that drowns in a cold bath of grim self-pity.
Philip Roth's original ending is cranked up to 11, flattening the more interesting contours of Al Pacino's performance into a martyr's desperate plea for an audience's love.
As juvenile and frivolous a wish-fulfillment fantasy as one might expect from the visionary behind the lightsaber and Princess Leia hogtied to Jabba the Hut.
It's a quiet thud of a film, which embraces, with grace and precision, the nastiness of growing up with desire stuck in one's throat like a muffled scream.
As much as the film is primarily a genre workout for director Kevin Macdonald, the script makes room for a tough-minded, psychologically corrosive depiction of vengeance.
The film has the requisite iconography of a crime thriller, but no investment in any of it.
The set pieces follow their own insane, unstoppable logic, with each new twist yielding its own outré surprises.
This snapshot of catharsis follows a familiar trajectory, but Kate Barker-Froyland refreshingly resists elevating her characters' relationship to the level of grandiose.
Gabe Polsky's quiet yet welcome achievement is to allow us to see the individual amid the politics, clearly and sympathetically.
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