It has generous lashings of Aardman Animations' trademark warmth, visual inventiveness, and satisfying Claymation tactility.
True to its title, Marielle Heller's adaptation of Phoebe Gloeckner's semi-autobiographical novel has the loosely structured, unfiltered feel of a young person's diary.
The narrative derives much of its tension from the unsentimental ambivalence Jon Watts displays toward the story's two pre-teen boys.
A consummate sampler platter of the bounty of state-of-the-art animation currently available as alternatives established major-studio house styles.
Bobcat Goldthwait's hand too nervously tempers Barry Crimmins's outré tactics as kooky showmanship bred from unimaginable trauma.
Whit Stillman's "urban haute bourgeoisie" are redeemed because the filmmaker takes custody of them, their idiosyncrasies, their flaws.
Thomas Wirthensohn frequently sinks into dully positing Mark Reay as something close to the pinnacle of human integrity.
It can't resist winking at how this franchise manages to defy the limits of both human endurance and its superstar's rickety public status.
Father doesn't just know best, he's the only one whose knowledge or lack thereof means anything at all.
It does well in using dialogue to shape its escalating tête-à-tête, but the filmmaking is too fuzzy to expand on those ideas.
The poetic pretenses are compounded by a sledgehammer insistence on elusive and irreducible moments as inherently beautiful.
Here's a documentary so insidious, so comprehensively scrubbed clean, that it argues for the therapeutic powers of consumerism.
The film's denouement is at once shocking and organic because it echoes a well-paced but nasty children's fable.
Among the film's many revelations is the level of self-aware humility Brando exudes while talking about his life and creative process.
Breaking the laws of human nature is an ancient comic convention, but it only works when it leads to a laugh.
Writer-director Alex R. Johnson's film is the rare thriller that resounds with an authentic ring of chaos.
One senses that all of these kinds of docs are aggrandizing shrines made by artists trying to erect something out of nothing.
Robert Gordon and Morgan Neville reinforce the very circumstances they outwardly condemn.
Daniel Augusto relies on familiar tropes pertaining to the sexy, rebellious rock-star artist who does things his own way.
Tolerance in the film doesn't so much suggest a recognizably real epiphany as it does a moving Hallmark card.
When the film works, it does so largely because of the inherent bittersweet rush that the last few months of high school hold.
Like technological innovation itself, the film seems overwhelmed by the reach of all its techo-cultural parts.
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