Big Hero 6 is an enjoyable, ambitious film that seems awkwardly stuffed into a rigid, familiar mold.
Christopher Nolan’s goal seems to be to take the humor and wildness out of imagination, to see invention in rigidly practical and scientific terms.
“Slabtown” ended up raising more questions than it answered.
Kino presents Jonathan Demme’s dark, irreverent romantic comedy with an admirable A/V transfer, but skimps completely on the extras.
Dan Gilroy’s directorial debut only offers a familiar vision of today’s newsman and producers as misery peddlers, and callow ratings slaves bordering on the monstrous.
A startling reminder of just how seriously the series takes murder, even in regard to people who would happily eat your grandmother.
Alex Gibney’s Mr. Dynamite is a strikingly varied and substantial portrait of an intensely complex artist.
The film has a tendency to embrace the action genre’s more obnoxious elements, but there’s a proudly no-nonsense air to its nonsensicality.
Fellini’s unsparing odyssey of corrosive wealth and anxious commonality is given a reliably peerless A/V transfer from Criterion.
Constantine’s title character comes off as too cool to be genuinely troubled, and the series similarly feels as if it’s putting on airs.
There’s no denying the eerie pull of that last scene, the true horror of cynicism and paranoia turning humans into eaters of their own flesh.
Much like Rick, Tyreese is given a trial to see how far his empathy and trust in others will go, one that ends in a fatal, bloody beating.
One long trial of moral duty, and one that excuses repugnant behavior and psychological warfare in lieu of a repetitive, condescending sermon on honoring thy father.
The film devolves quickly into a pedestrian character study that basks in Gary Webb’s public shaming and victimization.
The dangers of filmmakers trying to replicate a golden era rather than embrace the present are part and parcel of Inherent Vice.
Its criticism is rooted in fury and condemnation for those who seek to be gods while shamefully feigning to follow and praise one god.
Jason Reitman fails to take into account any of the positive endeavors enabled by social media, which will no doubt be used to promote and market his film.
The flippancy toward thematic concerns and character construction suggests that the film was largely built from used parts.
It still strides like a behemoth, but the extras are sadly as inconsequential as the crowds rushing around our unlikely hero’s massive feet.
All of Scott Frank’s thematic concerns are little more than window dressing for a run-of-the-mill detective story in line with ’90s thrillers like The Bone Collector.