The film is a flag-waving action yarn even more ham-fisted than Pearl Harbor.
Todd Field’s film tackles grief with nary a hint of weepy melodrama.
Béla Tarr’s precise yet effortless command of the long take is so transcendent as to suggest the presence of God.
Despite playing it safe, the film is saved by its touching performances.
A sniveling diatribe from a great director beginning to resemble someone’s senile grandfather.
The London of the film is a delirious embodiment of a raging inferno, and the many on-screen deaths are remarkable to behold.
The near-hysterical portrait of angelic family life that defines film’s first hour gives way to a daunting portrait of grief.
Damien Odoul’s film is equally indebted to Truffuat and Bresson.
The film affects a nondenominational fugue state, where everyone is part of God but free of the pressures of groupthink.
Intimacy’s truths are remarkably universal, so painful yet so sexy in Patrice Chéreau’s hands.
That sound, ladies and gentleman, is that of Kattan’s movie career smashing into a brick wall.
Martin Scorsese celebrates his passion for early Italian cinema with My Voyage to Italy.
Focus is a specious study of mistaken identity set in New York during the height of WWII.
Business is business in the film, but, in the end, it’s all about who has your back.
Claude Lanzmann’s stringent gaze hardly moves from the stoic face of Yehuda Lerner.
Eyes will roll, hearts will melt; just in time for Christmas.
Eric Rohmer’s film is an economical antidote to the bloated costume drama.
A self-indulgent Montmartre-set fairy tale that’s the cinematic equivalent of a dribbling lump of caramel taffy.
Alain Guiraudie supplies a heady mix of social realism and intensely muted sexual desire.
If your male child is at all fond of post-‘80s Nickelodeon, the lame Max Keeble’s Big Move is sure to be this weekend’s hottest ticket.