A tale of memory and redemption that does little to linger in the mind and even less to decry P.L. Travers's claim that Disney turns everything it touches into schmaltz.
As played by an eloquently beleaguered Oscar Isaac, Llewyn Davis is arguably the most vivid and complex character the Coens have dreamed up since Marge Gunderson.
What this movie finally boils down to is a deceptively simple tale of two brothers, and of being one's brother's keeper, and of seeking justice on the crudest of fronts.
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.
Sergio Castellitto's film quickly turns out to be more interested in reveling in the secrets of its storyline than in its sentiments.
What's dark and weird about Zach Clark's film is also what's tangible, authentic, and wise about it.
Bille August's film is a protracted, soporific trip into Portuguese history that would like to be a romantic thriller.
Behold the message as articulated by John Carpenter's sublime sci-fi opus: "I'm giving you a choice: Either put on these glasses, or start eating that trashcan."
While it verges on exploitation of the gentle giant at its core, it's also an effective bit of human drama, competently, and sometimes movingly, telling a story that deserves to be told.
A confident and exciting genre film, and that's certainly not nothing, but it has a slight impersonality that marks it as either a calling card or a work for hire.
The film's method of admitting its own hypocrisy so as to enable it to further indulge said hypocrisy grows more grating than if it were merely indifferently conceived junk like Falling Down.
The conceit has the potential to be amusing, but the role-playing is never as funny or immersive as it could be, and the characters' repartee often feels more stilted than witty.
In its refusal to bring an easy understanding to its main character's behavior, it comes dangerously close to presenting her as a willing perpetrator in her own victimhood.
Spike Lee's version loses the one thing that really worked in the original, the sense of moral complication emerging out of the intertwined action of two men hell-bent on retribution.
The material plays out like a particularly busy episode of Sons of Anarchy, possessing a peculiar joylessness that's anathema to the success of films like this.
For anyone who prefers their assertive homilies to crust over like a syrupy sweet, this loose adaptation of Langston Hughes's beloved holiday tradition will come on like a dream fulfilled.
The film's empowering themes of feminine strengths and bonds eventually flourish in novel fashion.
A cursory history lesson with no interest in probing the deeper or more complex implications of Mandela's positions and their relationship to his country's shifting landscape.
The easiest way to find entry into the film is to accede to its reveries, to welcome and possibly celebrate its shifting tones and techniques.
Chen Kaige's film opts for didactic resolution instead of fully committing to the contradictions in identity and agency its main character embodies.
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