Swanberg's films have grown into a reliable relief from the competitive, dehumanizing freneticism of much of American culture, marked by an affirming sense of decency.
One may feel dissatisfied by the 11th-hour turn toward lyrical fatalism, and mildly insulted by the presumptuous attitude it seems to choose as it sends us on our way.
Franco's aesthetic is ugly and ambling, not so much because of its brownish-gray monochrome, but because it registers like the jerky result of a college kid wielding a DV cam.
As pleasant and effortless as Ramon Zürcher makes his formal persnicketiness and Akermanian aesthetic rigor seem, his film feels lightweight.
It uses archival and Broadway footage so seamlessly that telling the difference between reality and recreation becomes not only difficult, but one of the film's central metaphors.
Mark Jackson's direction strips much of the agency from any character's grasp by insisting that their dilemmas can only be revealed with stone-faced austerity.
As the film's monsters thrust and parry contemptuous dialogue at each other, it's hard not to feel that the prospect of sex between two people has seldom looked so joyless.
This is less a movie than a dutiful renewal of a recognizable title's licensing rights.
Never once does it project an intuitive understanding of how humans would behave or react in the midst of such a shattering misfortune.
It falls back on the trappings of the film's innumerable teenage gross-out forefathers with tiresome vulgarity and rote misunderstandings in place of genuine insight.
Luc Besson lacks the intellectual rigor to successfully realize the ambition evident in the metaphysical third act, but it's still exhilarating to watch him try.
A film of obvious characterizations and even more obvious plot machinations that render its moment-to-moment charms moot.
The film fluctuates haphazardly between semi-serious reverence and tongue-in-cheek camp, with no shortage of opportunities for the inevitable Rifftrax accompaniment.
Anton Corbijn constructs a stifling world of shadowy surveillance and intersecting national interests, building on John Le Carré's sense of moral and emotional exhaustion.
Just as Michael Douglas doesn't have it in his guts to make Oren a real son of a bitch (a grandpa Gekko), Diane Keaton's jangled neurotic tics lack any dramatic import.
It keeps us at a remove that becomes telling of the filmmaker's reticence to explore whatever feelings of isolation and yearning may inform his main character's grisly compulsion.
Jonathan Demme makes loving sport of the trust his actors have clearly placed in him, erecting for them a monument to the joys and terrors of walking an emotional high wire.
A rare War on Terror military exposé almost exclusively interested in the hearts and minds of low-ranking soldiers.
Just as queerness is conspicuous by its absence, so is any serious consideration of the drug use that often pairs with extended tastings of EDM.
Most disheartening is how the female leads aren't given ample space to develop as dynamic characters beyond the most urgent confines of the script's scenarios.
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 The Suspect, DVDs of Lullaby and The Protector 2, Noah Blu-ray and James Brown CD prizepacks, and more! >>