Ira Sachs's push for heartrending poetry makes it clear that the film is putting too fine a gloss on the acute pains of one small tragedy.
The female characters on Mad Men are probably the show's strongest asset, but here they're hollow to the point of insult.
It plays things a bit too straight and safe by giving into basic emotional and thematic possibilities of each period in Takei's prolific early life and subsequent Hollywood career.
An immensely gifted physical performer, Donnie Yen isn't strong enough an actor to suggest an authentic inner life to his character beyond a vague sense of stone-faced dissatisfaction.
Sean Ellis sees Filipino society as grist for standard genre fare, hoping that the foreign setting will somehow automatically make the clichés feel fresh.
Its offbeat aesthetic largely flaunts for appeal, suffocating character and thematic ambition underneath its flashiness.
More than just a thorough examination of hardcore pornography, Christina Voros's doc is also a sort of chronicle of the filmmaking process.
The film is uproariously funny, but its laughs don't come with an aftertaste of cynicism so much as they are the aftertaste of cynicism.
Cherien Dabis is least successful at connecting her character May's marital crisis to the rumblings of her repressed heritage.
A visual pleasure, and refreshingly free of message or structure, but it leaves an aftertaste similar to that of an awkward party spent among intellectuals.
The filmmakers' very particular sense of lighting and framing, though handsome, often exudes a formality that perpetually stifles the story's sense of spontaneity.
Lost in this barely coherent and clichéd hugger-mugger is the initial killer-website conceit and the attending erotic dread, which is retrospectively revealed to be an illusory siren call.
If the film defies conventional form, it does so without the gravitas that conceptual cohesion brings, quickly rendering its experimentation into gratuitous aesthetic masturbation.
The internal crisis of its protagonist amounts to the flicking of an on/off switch rather than the ebb and flow of a consciousness being born.
For all the brawn on display, the film never slows down to take in the thrill and talent of hand-to-hand combat.
The film boldly raises the unanswerable question of whether it's better for an artist to safely isolate his work or tweak it a bit so as to share it with the world.
The film pictorializes the cruel moment when curiosity encounters tragedy, and the all-too-human abandonment of interest that can follow.
Michael Winterbottom and his gifted actors still haven't quite solved the riddle of portraying social disconnection in a manner that's anything other than sporadically involving.
Jeff Baena's film, at heart, is just another overly familiar story of a boy struggling to get over his first love and who's rewarded for his troubles with a less volatile replacement model.
Like an astutely aching ballad, Philippe Garrel's film is pleased to ambiguously infer the interior logic of its irresolute characters without pigeonholing their motivations.
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