If you programmed an algorithm to figure out how The Lawnmower Man might be retold by Snake Plissken at the end of Escape from L.A., you'd still wind up with something more human.
Heaven Is for Real is by Christians, for Christians, and deliberately, if subtly, antagonistic toward everyone else.
Filmmakers Stephanie Spray and Pacho Velez insist that altered spectatorship, particularly patience and duration, is the foundation of cinematic edification.
It transforms from a meek lo-fi indie stalker thriller in the key of May to a hysterically sexist and homophobic revenge film.
The question of why one should actually work up any emotional investment in what happens to these people is never really answered, much less asked in the first place.
Daniel Stamm's film is solidly helmed, if expectedly over-reliant on unnecessarily grisly comeuppances that leave nothing to the imagination.
It takes the easiest approach to every scene, haphazardly juggling different tones without integrating them into a cohesive and consistent thematic identity.
A potential barroom joke blossoms into a surprisingly poignant portrait of three aging men wrestling with how to shed their mortal coil.
Nathan Silver captures the young-adult experience, particularly the agony of first sexual pangs, in films that deftly mix beguilement and repulsion.
There's a sinister, even insidious quality to a film that insists upon using incessant food montages not as a source of passion, but fodder for class-based self-congratulation.
It rarely feels like anything more than an effort to pander to the kind of audiences that enjoy Quentin Tarantino's films for all the wrong reasons.
Patrice Leconte struggles to find a coherent rhythm, a problem exacerbated by a hurried running time that compresses some of the novella's more interesting socio-political nuances.
The film works best when it shows Jonathan Daniel Brown's drug kingpin at his most inept and incapable, rather than elevating him to a pothead martyr.
Rarely has the open wound of widespread devastation been transposed to celluloid with greater visceral impact.
As is so often the case in Jim Jarmusch's films, simply spending time in the company of his creations proves engrossing.
Director David Gordon Green finds a balance between symbolism and realism in his storytelling that allows the film to be many things at once.
The cruelly obvious third act congeals the film as a wet-eyed monument to the Kevin Costner character's particular brand of American manliness.
The movie has less actual nutritional value than 10 bowls of crushed Froot Loops dust.
Through a mini-triumph of montage, what begins as run-of-the-mill backstory vomit is thrillingly repackaged as an almost-Lynchian duet between warring states of consciousness.
It ultimately offers little more than another opportunity for famous actors to indulge their fetishistic, inadvertently condescending impressions of "everyday" people.
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