It evinces a qualified kind of courage in its anonymous convictions, parodying a world that barely ever existed by barely existing itself.
A work of arduous assemblage that values information over affect and zip over conviction in its ramshackle historicizing of Apple CEO Steve Jobs.
A mostly laugh-free, paint-by-numbers approach to a pair of former pros vying for relevance as they enter, kicking and screaming, into their mid 30s.
Slacker and even less involving than the similarly terrible global kill-fest Last Knights, but easier to watch for the inadvertent camp value of two of the prominent performances.
Even if the title is meant to be ironic, the latest from writer-director Neil LaBute is a frustratingly stilted vision of middle-aged repression unleashed.
Unfortunately, the film's occasionally thrilling visual sleight-of-hand comes at the ultimate service of a boilerplate early-mid-life-crisis drama.
It both feeds off of and perpetuates nostalgia for a time when the nation seemed more politically conscious and therefore more capable of creating lasting social change.
Jules Dassin doesn't waste much time in expressing exactly what he thinks of the criminals and gangster culture that rule his underworld.
As Zac Efront's Cole tiptoes away from his past, the film keenly observes a character who doesn't know how to secure his future, or his identity.
The only way that this film could be any more racist is if the Dwyer family holed up with Lillian Gish and waited for the Klan to save them.
The film squanders the promise of its scrutiny into how people recalibrate their sense of morality in times of crisis.
Every beautiful, resonant image in writer-director Alex Ross Perry's film is fraught with neurotic, diaphanous riddles.
The film all leads to a melodramatic climax that wraps up the main character's explosive acting out in a too-neat package.
The film is one long funereal slog in which the main character discovers something about herself that's almost immediately apparent.
A documentary whatsit acutely aware of the inherent performance people put into social discourse to maintain appearances.
An unsentimental vision of war as an arena in which men and women achieve self-actualization, suffer moral decay, and do whatever a given situation necessitates.
It wants for a keener vision of corrupted power, but at least Mora Stephens navigates her main character's sudden slew of infidelities without banalizing them.
Character relations are hinted at and even primed for confrontation, but without payoff or meaningful conclusion.
A Bourne movie turned just askew enough to be funny, American Ultra trains a bemused eye on a trope ripe for a ribbing.
It merely exudes an aura of cheap manipulation by which the audience is simply asked to rank the film's characters on a d-bag scale and root for their survival, or destruction, accordingly.
If first-timer Aleksander Bach's choices as a director are any indication, he's a filmmaker who cares less about characters and actors than about dubious surface dazzle.
Reminiscent of Woody Allen's great, under-sung Manhattan Murder Mystery, it utilizes a pulp conceit as a shorthand for the regrets that bubble up in a marriage.
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