The film fails to supply an emotional punch to match the grandeur of its Lawrence of Arabia-inspired compositions.
Magic Mike XXL plays like the party bus whose road was charitably paved.
This edge of self-justification neuters the usual confidence in Schwarzenegger's deadpan wisecracking, further revealing the transparency of this cash grab.
It mostly succeeds in conveying a galvanizing sense of what made Winehouse so immediately engaging.
Ken Loach's staging is so calm and sober that it turns his story into an expertly photographed yet weirdly remote rebellion tale.
Even Les Blank's most conventional work remains an elusive vision, punctuated by cultural insights that elude many filmmakers for their entire careers.
The filmmakers maintain a tone that's mostly ideal for the contemporary equivalent of a drive-in movie: of reverent, parodic irreverence.
The filmmakers aren't really interested in the space between what these women say and what they mean.
A stunning work of war reportage nestled within a creaky study of ideological purity.
The film comes undone in its clumsy attempts to transform its story into a parable of economic distress.
Ron "Stray Dog" Hall proves to be a welcome antidote to stereotypes about burly, bearded red-state RV dwellers.
The end result suggests Re-Animator as told through an airless CNN report.
The film is just another fantasy of living only the good portions of the life of an artist.
The film is a redundant showcase for Seth MacFarlane's racy, dick-centric sense of humor.
It hits its Red State beats so hard that its target audience likely won't notice they're being not only condescended to, but insulted outright.
The distinctiveness of Matías Piñeiro's alluring brand of formalism lies in this deference to chance and alchemy.
Alan Rickman's film is consistently, and often dispiritingly, mired in the quaint tradition of the classy costume drama.
Any hope of meaningful reflection or insight is doused by a steady drip of often redundant and banal observations.
Whether because of race, shame, shelter, or fright, 7 Minutes remains white in the face throughout.
It's perched uneasily on a fence separating a rote comic sketch film from something weirder, stranger, and less engaged with offering reassuring domestic homilies.
David Hackl often shoots his bear in fashions that accent its lumbering, powerful grace, even during its death rattle.
The rambling conversations and endless wandering through nature could let the film pass for a filler episode of Lost.
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