Michel Gondry bungles his adaptation of the Boris Vian novel by indulging in homespun craftwork at the expense of plot and character detail.
The director diligently keeps her heroine's ego in check, and that's awfully principled of her, but her audience may feel as if they've inadvertently booked a trip with no destination.
Jeremy Snead's doc comes off more as a commercial for a grand, overarching product that isn't finished being developed.
Richard Linklater's film is an experiment in time, and one that's attentive to the audience's sense of empathy.
This is a summer blockbuster contingent on grand bargains, tactical retreats, and a ferocious, inevitable shock-and-awe campaign.
The next step in Jafar Panahi's personal cinema of captivity, a fully fictionalized, wildly bewildering work which imagines a man at war with his own creative impulse.
Land Ho! is at once akin to and acts as an insightful corrective to such 60-is-the-new-12 comedies as Last Vegas.
The film is like an episode of Gossip Girl that's mistaken itself for one of the great satires by Evelyn Waugh.
Aarón Fernández captures one of the most heartening elements of sex: that it doesn't always oblige our rules or expectations.
An inept trifle, Pascal Chaumeil's film reduces Nick Hornby's novel of the same name to a series of smug self-help gestures.
Paco Cabezas's film is little more than a revenge relic pretending that the ethical treatise of David Cronenberg's A History of Violence never happened.
Paddy Considine's benumbed ambiguity at least works against writer-director Shan Khan's reduction of honor killings to grist for the cheapest of pulpy thrills.
What could have been a spirited dissection of Jay-Z's optimistic enterprise is instead merely an advertisement for it.
A jump scare isn't just a jump scare in the films of Scott Derrickson, which isn't to say this wannabe master of horror has entirely perfected the art of sudden dread.
The film is an almost plotless doodle, with low stakes made even lower thanks to the bratty passivity of its titular antiheroine.
There's a sense throughout of director Steve James rushing and dutifully covering all his bases to evade accusations of creating a puff piece.
The constant foregrounding of so much well-executed incident only works to shortchange the heroes' yearnings and anxieties.
The doc is beholden to the same plethora of taboos, half-truths, and outright lies traded en masse by mainstream conservatism for the last seven years.
Not even the choice of a lead with visible facial acne scars, a welcome gesture toward authenticity, is enough to overcome the gaping hole of psychological nuance at the film's center.
Even when the band plays away from private eyes or songs simply play over disconnected footage of them having fun, the strength of their songcraft is stirring.
Our preview section is your best, most complete guide for all the films, big and small, coming your way soon. >>
Enter to win Blu-rays of Stage Fright, Rigor Mortis, Kid Cannabis, DVDs of Le Week-End, and more! >>