Every time we think we’re finally settling into a pattern for Record of the Year, Grammy reverses course.
For Ennio Morricone, being hitched up to Quentin Tarantino’s nostalgia-flattering métier, will be enough to ensure his first competitive Oscar.
The sentiment of “How many Grammys can we give Taylor Swift?” hangs thick in the air.
Even the least successful of this year’s Oscar nominees for animated film avoids settling for mere ersatz babysitter status.
In the style categories, Oscar voters have almost always preferred candidates who show and tell.
Most Nicholas Sparks adaptations say nothing so complicated as “roses are red.” This one just points to a garden and shrugs.
Brie Larson, in Room, fights back tooth and claw from the brink just as much as the frontrunner in the Oscar race for best actor.
It’s to the Oscars’ shame that they couldn’t nominate a pair of movies each containing multitudes that would give Baskin-Robbins a cold sweat.
Odds continue to favor the snarkiest candidate, so we’re predicting it’ll be West Bank Story all over again.
The sense that children’s attitudes toward militarization are being normalized is its objectionable given.
It seems engineered to give you that initial rush of satisfaction, but leaves you in a dead zone where the only thing you want is more of the same.
Every year, Oscar bloggers put on a pretty good show in pointing out how, unlike all previous years, this year is truly a wild, unpredictable free-for-all.
It becomes too cruel to generate laughter for anyone who would empathize with Ferrell’s tantrum-prone man-child.
In the film, Alvin and the Chipmunks proudly align themselves not with Dr. Demento, but with Kidz Bop.
The year’s best singles found new, inventive means of correspondence between the past and the present.
The film makes everyone’s lives nothing but the blank spots in fate’s big book of Mad Libs.
Sloppy and haphazard where it should be calculatedly chaotic, it can’t ever seem to settle on an appropriate tone.
A major moment of transition between David Cronenberg’s exploitative body-horror movies and his probing psychological masterworks.
The film is an artless, puerile shadow of the likes of Edgar Wright and Simon Pegg’s Cornetto trilogy.
The film only serves to validate George Clooney’s devotion to showmanship as Hollywood’s current reigning poster boy for blue-state morality.