It’s the screenwriting equivalent of Ryan Adams sucking the pop vitality out of Taylor Swift’s deliriously produced tunes.
Joe Wright’s film could fuel an entire series of incredulous episodes of the How Did This Get Made? podcast.
In one of the album’s brightest highlights, Janet pays tribute to Michael by channeling the buoyant energy of his Off the Wall-era disco.
As confident as they seem to burrow deeper into their own brand, there remains the edge of paranoia that drove some of their last album’s post-millennial tenser moments.
The film risks offense by putting a typically Adam Sandler-ian twist on a tired familial trope.
Nancy Meyers is committed to her signature of giving her female protagonists their cake and letting them eat it too.
Baltasar Kormákur’s film is a tasteful, sweeping, carefully balanced reconciliation between the irrefutable authority of nature and mankind’s innate need to circumvent it.
Its insolence about sexual identity and mental illness would feel dated were the film not De Palma’s finest comedy, albeit in genre drag.
The secret of The Visit reduces everything to a campfire story.
It adds more grist for the mill to the notion that studios don’t hit the big red “reboot” button in any other state than a panic.
Father doesn’t just know best, he’s the only one whose knowledge or lack thereof means anything at all.
When the film works, it does so largely because of the inherent bittersweet rush that the last few months of high school hold.
The script doesn’t revel in Amy’s quite harmless flaws, or at least examine them in the spirit of benevolence.
With Born in the Echoes, the Chemical Brothers follow their muse and just bang.
The movie’s mission: to utterly domesticate the Minions and shoehorn them into a clumsy heist plot.
The film is strictly a high-tech spin on one of those Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark.
It hits its Red State beats so hard that its target audience likely won’t notice they’re being not only condescended to, but insulted outright.
With Deja vu, Giorgio Moroder rips a page right out of the Calvin Harris/David Guetta/Steve Aoki playbook.
If ever there was a movie equivalent of dad bod, Entourage is it.
George Miller orchestrates the rubber-burning pandemonium with the illicit smirk of someone who knows he’s giving us exactly what we want.