Taste and good intentions are only going to get one so far with a script this tone deaf and direction this ugly and monotonous.
You may wish that Shout! Factory had thrown a more ambitious welcome back party for the film.
The film, more likely to invite comparisons to the writings of Marcel Proust than the previous Ip Man films, is a gorgeous folly that never entirely emerges from its creator’s head.
“Blood Money” kicks off the second half of the final season with probably the most startling pre-title sequence in the show’s history.
L.Q. Jones’s film is more than just your everyday post-apocalyptic western reverie of the joys of adolescent poon hunting.
This not-quite-stellar release proves that the Criterion Collection, like the heroes of Ophüls’s masterpiece, isn’t quite infallible.
Paul Schrader and Bret Easton Ellis don’t have the sense of play this kind of narrative of one-upmanship requires, as we’re never allowed to enjoy the characters’ misdeeds.
The extras on this DVD edition are compromised of a mixture of the old and new that should offer a little something for everyone.
After a while, it’s hard to escape the fact that the audience is watching a potential monster movie in which most of the fun stuff—i.e. the monster—has been pared away.
This edition makes a weak, halfhearted case for Coppola’s latest oddity, which can use all the defense it can get.
A characteristically top-shelf Criterion presentation of a savage tale that hasn’t aged a second.
The film is a singularly huge, relentless, all-encompassing set piece that mutates and spasms with terrifying lack of foresight. It’s all business, business, business.
This is indisputably the film to see if you’ve longed to watch a homeless wino flush himself down a commode. That’s a compliment.
It’s the rare coming-of-age narrative that manages to respect the tricky ambiguities of shifting perceptions.
Cohen & Tate isn’t in the league of the best despairing existentialist thrillers of Walter Hill, but it’ll do in a pinch.
Wayne Kramer thankfully refuses to cloak his excessiveness in hedge-betting self-consciousness and the result is a gratifyingly disreputable B-movie blow out.
The FX show doesn’t have the forceful originality of some other socially conscious dramas, but it’s off to a promisingly lurid start.
The film is in part an exceedingly black comedy that parodies proper society’s eager, self-righteous naïveté on the subject of its children.
The tension almost immediately leaks out of the narrative once we realize we’re watching a found-footage horror movie.
Longworth’s openness to the less-respected titles in the Pacino canon allows her to fashion a coherent biography of the actor’s work.