Jake Gyllenhaal embodies the two roles with real presence, establishing Adam's sniveling wimp and Anthony's striding jerk as two believably discrete sides of the same coin.
For all its references to the show's history, the film never panders. It's an evolution of the core concept as opposed to a nostalgia-tinged reproduction, and is all the better for it.
Even when compared to other Ford Mustang commercials, the film isn't particularly memorable for anything other than the startling incompetence and dull sheen of the end result.
The meager comeuppance and hasty notes of sweetness that end the film feel pre-approved rather than organically realized.
The film's dialogue is knowing and the action sequences are elaborate, but only in ways that advance the shady story toward its hokey denouement.
Sion Sono's film is a vision of coming of age as trial by fire, a thunderous encapsulation of that period of transition in which adolescents try to discover themselves.
Sion Sono's Guilty of Romance is something of a feminist film with a message that's both dystopic and invigorating.
Rachel Boynton remarkably reveals just how much influence corporate interests have on public wellbeing, and how rarely Ghanaians are part of any debate.
An energetic but paper-thin genre exercise, filled with pleasant riffs on the standard heist flick, but ultimately lacking in payoff.
A sexily chaotic parody of entitlement becomes just another tale of a white dude learning that there are worse things in life than essentially having no problems.
Both keenly calculated and flowing with offbeat, naturalistic detail, Hanif Kureishi's jewel of a script reflects his sensibilities as a playwright.
It's dizzyingly creepy in its refracting of horrors through the cascading windows of computer programs we've come to understand more intimately than our own selves.
It's in the way the film refuses to characterize its central friendship solely on the grounds of common isolation that becomes its most endearing quality.
Beyond the forthright identity politics and titillating theatrical misdemeanors, one still comes away wondering about the things that remain concealed.
The film is so in love with its unoriginal premise that it can't see the forest for the trees, treating reality like an occasionally relevant prop and stalking as a sweetly romantic gesture.
As always, Wes Anderson places his trademark precision in direct confrontation with the chaos and confusion menacing his characters.
The film leaves no doubt of the original's influence, but to watch it is to sit dumbstruck at the cynicism of Hollywood bean counting.
The film spent roughly a dozen years in development, and the moronic, corporate detritus from that long time warp is strewn about like so many improbable history lessons.
Eugenio Mira thrills in watching Tom attempt to worm his way out of a most unusual hostage situation, synching his indulgences of style to the pianist's wily physical maneuvering.
With Travis Mathews's help, James Franco's persona forms a kind of symmetry: 1980's dubious homophobia against 2013's risible homophilia.
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