We kick off our Oscar winner-prediction coverage this year with the category even AMPAS wants to flush.
Michael Fassbender appeared in almost as many movies this year as Oldman has throughout his career.
It’s both unfair and too easy to shake out predictions for this category based on what is most likely to appeal to the Kindle Fire set.
The Artist seems likely to not only get nominated, but also win.
The “Drudge siren” headline this year is that Pixar’s uncharacteristically horrible Cars 2 will probably keep the house that Woody built completely out of the race.
First take a look at the 15 feature films nominated by the Art Directors Guild.
The biggest hurdle for Malick’s answer to 2001 may be the demonstrable fact that this category favors movies with titles longer than your average James Joyce sentence.
Fred Falke has become the foremost producer of synth-driven, electro-tinged, proudly processed French dance music.
Some albums only need three-word reviews, like “fun and dumb.”
If it’s not as immediately galvanizing as, say, Rising Down, the album lingers.
My Life II…The Journey Continues (Act 1) feels like a corrective, one which intends to restore soul back to prominence.
Miss Little Havana makes an impression, even though you probably won’t want to wear it again.
“Hakuna Matata” would mean never having to be subjected to The Lion King ever again, much less having Simba’s growing pains coming at your face in 3D.
The film isn’t a fearless repudiation of the “meet cute” archetype, but rather a bold, specific revision: “meet right.”
It, doesn’t do much to break the mold of sex-drugs-and-starfuckers sameness afflicting this particular subgenre.
These songs are chilled just to the point where you can definitely taste the beginnings of freezer burn.
There’s no such thing here as a “more characteristic” track, because they’re all virtually identical.
Heteros get their Crazy, Stupid, Love. this weekend, and I guess gay New Yorkers get their own Crazy, Stupid, Tragedy. as counterprogramming.
The real target of the film’s ire is New York envy itself, and the sad people who simply couldn’t stomach living anywhere else.
The Colors of the Prism won’t likely alter anyone’s presuppositions about 20th-century music.