The prevailing attitude behind Bryan Buckley’s film can be boiled down to a simplistic idea: the cruder, the better.
Gods of Egypt’s virtues as throwback don’t elide the foolhardly decision to imprint an ancient mythology on a contemporary superhero framework.
It spends a lot of time considering the fear of knowing, which may explain why Alejandro Amenábar didn’t seem to know what kind of film he was making.
The characters’ homelessness is less indicative of a real-life epidemic and more akin to window dressing.
Commingling industry shoptalk with introspective insights and wrangling testimonials, the film casts an incredibly wide net.
The film’s tired sentimentality aside, its general lack of empathy is most damning.
The filmmakers stand out of Ferrell and Hart’s way, but they refuse to modulate the story’s racial humor with any sense of subversion.
It takes place entirely at night, and the dingy color palette, washed-out and intentionally drab, presents Russia as an almost alien landscape.
The character study nestled inside all the bombast remains crafty for its commingling of artful storytelling and genre nonsensicality.
It isn’t long before we feel like hostages ourselves, bound by the filmmakers’ strained moral outrage.
This big, brash, occasionally clever, but mostly dumb comedy is so derivative that it feels like playing a game of basic-cable bingo.
This third and supposedly final edition in the franchise is nothing more than an uncomfortably transparent contractual obligation.
Florian Habicht unwisely shifts his focus from Sheffield and its unique denizens to the band’s personal history, effectively turning the film into an episode of Behind the Music.
It’s easy to see how Daniel Simpson’s desire to return the found-footage genre to its roots resulted in cheap imitation.
Reclaim’s highly mechanized plot ensures that the film is over before it even ends.
The filmmakers’ inquiry-free recipe for disaster is to idealize everyone’s unchecked narcissism and idle privilege.
More than just a thorough examination of hardcore pornography, Christina Voros’s doc is also a sort of chronicle of the filmmaking process.
Robin Williams once again proves he can insufferably crank the energy to 11 without batting an eye, only this time his frenzied comic demeanor is replaced with equally harried contempt.
Heaven Is for Real is by Christians, for Christians, and deliberately, if subtly, antagonistic toward everyone else.
Aside from being another rote addition to the revenge-film canon, John Stockwell’s In The Blood is also a supreme waste of Gina Carano’s talent.