Rob Reiner’s sloppy, episodic direction dwells on neither the emotion nor the mortality that would think would be impossible to screw up.
The film is a radical distillation of its source novel’s densely stuffed ghosts-and-gore imagery.
And it all begins to make some sense.
Come and play with us, Danny—in anamorphic widescreen-forever, and ever, and ever.
Flush it down the toilet.
The story is as dumb as one could possibly hope for on the surface.
Underrated, but nowhere near as much as the book.
Cujo, as a film, is your classic glass half empty/glass half full scenario.
The image here will have you gazing into the light.
It wouldn’t be nearly as effective a film if one weren’t attuned to the hidden diametric pull between various fissuring elements.
With Oblivion, Underworld has cashed in the hard-fought credibility they earned through an until-now consistent career.
Lagerfeld Confidential lives up to its title by keeping its central topic top secret.
This set confirms the myth built by the first volume.
Brave aims to uphold the standards of individuality that we have, for whatever reason, come to expect from our dance floor divas.
Felix Da Housecat obviously lost it at the movies.
Fantasmoland for the rugrat set. It deserves to be rescued from the garbage heap where most other Disney movies ought to be dumped.
The Jungle Book may be Disney’s greatest Mouse House party, at least up until the moment Mowgli reaches the perimeter of the Man Village.
You can’t cut the ham from the bones of either of these films.
The devil may wear Prada, but the rest of the fashion world wears pink.
How did this movie end up so off-the-rack?