Stéphane Sednaoui’s images move in mysterious ways.
Iny, miny, mino, mo. Who’s the next motherfucker to go?
Come for Jimmy Fallon and Drew Barrymore but stay for the Farrelly brothers’ signature brand of romantic humanism.
HellBent is distinguished by it’s uniquely perverse obsession with disability.
It doesn’t look or sound like “the caca” but the story smells a little bit like it.
It would be easier to write off Undiscovered as a committee picture conceived by studio hacks if it weren’t for its distracting direction.
In Separate Lies, the bombshells don’t illuminate emotion.
In spite of its individual pleasures, the film has very little in its head.
Nature has its logic and it’s one that Deborah Koons Garcia defends with sobering integrity.
You can dampen a few childhood memories by chasing after a nostalgia kick.
There’s a sense that the writers of Weeds are as lazy as their main character, that they understand her as little as she seems to understand herself.
The presentation is too fake to be real and not nearly fake enough to be called avant-garde.
There’s something oddly compelling, albeit pretentious, about the film’s rudimentary visual argot.
This Oliver Twist isn’t the nasty affair that Roman Polanski fans might be hoping for.
Don’t ever say that New York doesn’t have a little something for everyone.
Not included in the round-up of critic reviews is the four-star notice by Roger Ebert, who thought about writing his piece with his left foot.
It’s easy to imagine what My Left Foot might have looked like in the hands of a lesser director.
It’s bad from beginning to end, and like Jake, it’s totally full of itself.
Heads off to Anchor Bay for this surprisingly meaty DVD edition of Trauma.
A low-grade Dario Argento film gets the red-carpet treatment from Anchor Bay.