This sequel strenuously works to form a total inversion of the first movie’s relationship with food.
As he does in his best works, Chris Marker constantly scans the fluctuations of human behavior with the clarity of a poet.
In almost every way, this is the least outré effort Nine Inch Nails has proffered since Pretty Hate Machine.
Colette’s music has a contradictorily loose but driving energy, like a mixed martial-arts bout fought with neon-blue throw pillows.
Ishtar finally hits Blu-ray, allowing everyone interested in revisionism the chance to engaged in some truly “Dangerous Business.”
It’s as much a parody of the new horror breed as it is of the 1950s monster flicks.
It doesn’t hurt, of course, that she seems to have a dash of Sabrina the Teenage Witch about her.
R.I.P.D. devotes far more energy to concept than execution, leaving most of the promising aspects high and dry.
It’s going to take a whole lot more than 3,000 limited edition copies of this Blu-ray to help The Only Game in Town finally turn a profit.
Open, unironic disco revivalism very often threatens to tumble into a 4/4 uncanny valley.
As a collection of potential singles from an artist who should have more #1’s, Ciara is a modest, calculated effort.
The Kentucky Fried Movie proves the maxim, “comedy is in the eye of the beholder.”
Do I think you’ll want to join Adam, Blake, and ‘Ders for another season of Workaholics? I’m not just sure, I’m HIV positive.
So long as there are men in power who are still fuzzy on the definition of rape, Rosemary’s Baby will endure as a cautionary tale.
The wealth of extras here would outlast even Rob Bottin’s own leg-shaving party.
Most of Planta comes off as a moment of respite, but most of their fans will allow them the moment.
No, Poltergeist III doesn’t make any sense, but it reaps the rewards left by the legacy-dashing second film’s sins.
A woman’s heart is a deep lake of secrets. And dead bodies.
Would The Burning have been a better movie without the involvement of Bob and Harvey Weinstein? Wouldn’t any movie?
Random Access Memories is simultaneously the most narcissistic and selfless gesture in Daft Punk’s career so far.