Like Me is an unconventional fusion of horror film, road movie, and sadomasochistic sex drama.
Mosaic suggests a mammoth world that exists beyond Steven Soderbergh’s rigorously structured narrative.
Brian Taylor’s film invests a hoary conceit with disturbing and hilarious lunacy.
Obsessed by symbolism and decorum, Greg Barker’s documentary misses the sea change in plain sight.
Babak Najafi’s Proud Mary is a so-so action melodrama with an insulting whiff of generic blaxploitation stylistics.
Ziad Doueiri’s film is well acted and staged with periodic liveliness, but its earnestness grows wearying.
Humor Me writer-director Sam Hoffman isn’t willing to disrupt his familiar and tightly structured plot.
The film’s mixture of sensationalism and self-conscious artiness is experimentally disingenuous at best.
The images have a pleasing straightforwardness that parallels the openness of Cody’s longing for love.
This fiery piece of pulp shrapnel receives a beautifully ugly transfer, along with a handful of negligible supplements.
The film’s derivatively stylish cinematography laboriously hints at un-broached turmoil and passion.
Fatih Akin’s In the Fade comes to life when it dramatizes the distraction tactics necessary to excusing terrorism.
Scott Cooper’s film moves at a funereal pace, implicitly celebrating its sluggishness as a mark of integrity.
Gilles Paquet-Brenner’s film is ultimately a genre item that operates on alternately prestigious and campy autopilot.
In terms of scale and narrative ingenuity, Wormwood is as staggering as any Errol Morris film before it.
The thorniest nostalgia trip in the history of television has been outfitted with a gorgeous and painstaking transfer.
The film arrives at a place of qualified peace that cauterizes the emotional wounds of Anderson’s cinema.
Soderbergh’s bracingly playful return to cinema is accorded a stunning transfer and little else, though the film itself is more than enough.
The impudent, unruly streak that so often gives Guillermo del Toro’s films their pulse has been airbrushed away.
Brian Smrz never contrasts the film’s violence with stillness, allowing us to enjoy a sense of foreboding escalation.