The film is committed enough to the pleasure principle that the audience is served one giddy act of visual sorcery after another.
This genre landmark has retained its thousand and one delights.
The documentary combines a primer-essay on the use of anabolic steroids in America with a family chronicle verging on cine-therapy.
Díte’s limited awakening is neither tragedy nor the kind of bitter, fatalistic farce seen in Seven Beauties.
The film is even less funny than Southland Tales, and not nearly as adventurous.
Fatih Akın’s The Edge of Heaven differs from and follows recent strands of the cinema of politics, for better and worse.
Wise Blood is a sharp, busy canvas that, like a man with a good car, doesn’t need to be justified.
A low-budget success in capturing the flesh, and some of the soul, of O’Connor’s twisted salvation fable.
It’s too bad that Trumbo over-relies on actors to goose up his voice with PBS-style epistolary “class.”
The publicly gregarious and preternaturally confident Bobby Valentine is given a tad-too-slick ESPN-produced encomium.
That the black-and-white grit of the immigrant, working-class milieu gives way to a finale of grainy color wish-fulfillment is no big surprise.
To quote Julia Roberts’s character in the film, Charlie Wilson’s War is liberal…but not where it counts.
Director Delphine Kreuter uses her silly streak to enforce simplistic narrative roles throughout the film.
Always recorded in what appears to be high spring or summer, Profit motive and the whispering wind‘s succession of memorials is reverent but never somnambulant
What is home, and if we want to leave but can’t, why not?
Malta’s tourism industry will likely survive this mirthless rom-com.
The film balances portraying an everyday sense of the adolescents’ wartime anxiety with the more commonplace juvenile relief.
Even if it doesn’t quite sustain its spell for the full 99 minutes, it’s an infectious autumnal work brimming with wit and love of life.
Baghead is a prankish comedy-thriller overtly about desperation and insecurity.
The First Saturday in May is handicapped by an unavoidable postscript that even nonfans are apt to recall.