This bold, imaginative, infuriatingly neglected work of expressionist agitprop receives the gorgeous transfer it deserves.
Mulder and Scully’s disregard for protocol is one of the more interesting, partially inadvertent frictions of bringing The X-Files into the present.
It’s somehow even duller than the American remake of Giuseppe Tornatore’s original Italian film.
The episode’s most obvious sign of desperation is its reliance on slide shows to orient viewers.
A negligible horror time-killer receives a top-shelf refurbishing courtesy of Universal Studios Home Entertainment.
Writer-director Jacob Gentry’s film has the emotional fatuousness of uncertain softcore erotica.
The film offers audiences a bundle of fetishes dressed up as an existentialist thriller about the class system.
In Billions, money isn’t money, but a scorecard signifying a theoretically cold and objective qualification of bitterness and one-upmanship.
Mr. Robot’s uneven first season evolves from a preachy David Fincher rip-off into an engagingly trashy soap opera.
The film ultimately boils down to people bludgeoning one another in unimaginative close-ups.
Its occasionally ambiguous befuddlement recalls Ben Wheatley’s considerably more ferocious films.
Sweaty Betty is a reminder that poetry comes in all shapes and sizes, and that art ultimately dictates its own terms.
It inelegantly infuses a standard revenge western with the gravitas of a war veteran’s coming-home odyssey.
In the film, Welles is at the height of his powers while reveling in the poetic force of Falstaff’s weakness.
The film convincingly furthers Perry’s continuing championing of DVD as the more evocative alternative to Blu-ray’s crisp digital polish.
The film’s highpoint is one of the most moving sex scenes in all of American cinema, and the irony of it involving bland puppets is hardly lost on Kaufman and Johnson.
Paramount rolls out the formal red carpet for Rogue Nation, a glamorous spy fantasy with shards of playful wit and meta derring-do.
In selecting the worst films of the year, we dove into ourselves and not the percentage pool.
Too much of Noma is composed of gorgeous pillow shots, which grow static and fussy, existing almost apart from the subject matter.
There’s still something distinctive about Luther and its mix of the chic and the gross.