Beautiful through and through, the film has the texture of membranous wings or dreams.
Spit-polished with Greengrassian artistic din, London to Brighton is kitchen-sink realism without the soul.
The film operates under the delusion that it’s a scabrous genre autopsy.
Tiger’s Tail never feels like the work of director known for his subtle and poetic dramatizations of moral crisis.
One thing no one could have told you a year ago was that not one, but two darlings of the critical establishment would be frontrunners here.
They doubted me, but then they saw, and then they believed.
There is no category this year whose lineup—and winner—is closest to being set in stone than supporting actor.
Alice’s House raises the question: Can a film thrive on too much detail?
With Summer Palace, Lou Ye speaks more plainly in his own voice, tired at last of affecting Wong Kar-wai’s florid style of filmmaking.
From strip clubs to belligerent backyard parties, Trailer Park Boys: The Movie plays straight and easily flies over one’s head.
Thanks to Martin Scorsese’s seal of approval, Golden Door may now he salvaged from critical and popular disinterest.
What’s the point of U2 3D beyond simulating a front-row view of one of the band’s concerts?
Global Lens is a collaboration between the Museum of Modern Art and San Francisco-based organization the Global Initiative.
It settles for Wikipedia-style objectivity dressed in the more fatuous-than-provocative manner of Robinson Devor’s Zoo.
Cassandra’s Dream is simply content reprimanding the main characters for not knowing their place.
It was a blast from the past that incited the most ardent critical passion: Killer of Sheep.
Another film-school-in-a-box by Paul Thomas Anderson, There Will Be Blood is a triumph of vivid, overly assertive aesthetic minutiae.
It’s not a demanding proposition, but after The Golden Compass, Alvin and the Chipmunks feels like rocket science.
Broken English is the best American independent film I’ve seen all year.