Ratatouille’s batch of technical nominations in the categories where adults are allowed to play renders this contest a no brainer.
The blogosphere couldn’t care less about this award now that Jonny Greenwood’s There Will Be Blood score was preemptively taken out of competition.
You’ve got to give Lionsgate credit for putting a spotlight on Godard’s later, grumpier works.
Berlin is a no-go this year, and because I wasn’t able to make it to Venice, Toronto, and Vladivostok in 2007, or travel to the Festival du Film Polonais Cat.Studios, 12, Mongol, and Katyn are unfortunate blindspots here.
The Aristocats is one of the slightest of director Wolfgang Reitherman’s contributions to the Disney animated feature canon.
The Aristocats is not jazz.
In one corner, we have the Piaf Patrol, snapping away at anyone who doesn’t proclaim the second coming over Marion Cotillard’s rolling eyes, puckering lips, and spasmodic tantrums.
Hey, I just heard the funniest thing the other day.
Today’s episode of softcore melodrama has been brought to you by Pamprin, Love’s Baby Soft, and Diet Slice.
Cecilia sets out to prove that sex is reserved for the rich, those who can wander naked among the overripe green leaves of their immense estates.
Once again, Criterion earns the reputation of releasing “film schools in a box.”
The Coen brothers, Paul Thomas Anderson, and, arguably, Julian Schnabel are all pretty close to locks.
This is the only one of the four acting categories that seems to have a lot of play left to work with.
This is the “for the clubs” monster the half-written “Come on Get Up” wanted to be back in 2001 before giving up entirely.
Ruby Dee may be the only one that generates honest goodwill with a titanic slap worthy of the category’s “season vet” slot.
Suddenly, the Oscar race is being headlined by a pair of uncompromising, boldly conceived pieces of formalism.
Lee’s first feature-length film was one of the lynchpins of the burgeoning American indie movement of the ’80s.
It’s finally on DVD, so now fans can stop pleading, “Please, baby, please, baby, please, baby baby baby.”
If you don’t see cinema in these three short films, go take a flying jeté.
It’s hard to get beyond the very title of Mary J. Blige’s eighth overstuffed collection of affirmations, self-definitions, and keepin’-it-real-isms.