With The Departed, William Monahan turned what was, in Infernal Affairs, a smart concept given a terminally vague execution into a high-concept vehicle fit for mass consumption.
Sure, the last time the majority of nominations in this category belonged to a single film, said film actually won.
So essentially meritless are the films up for this award, it’s hardly worth discussing the merits or demerits of each as a viable candidate.
Yes, when making our three-out-of-five predictions on who would be nominated here, we argued how refreshing it was to see a prospective category stocked with supporting performances, instead of co-leads.
To hear some tell it, Alexandre Desplat is just about the finest thing to happen to motion picture scoring since Bernard Herrmann or Franz Waxman.
It’s running neck and pec between the broody Muppet movie and the one whose cast looks like they’ve been assaulted by Animal wielding a scummy powder puff.
Appropriately enough, we begin our Oscar prediction coverage by exorcising the foul demon spirit of Paul Haggis.
The disorientingly smart essay films of Chris Marker can admittedly be a tough sell.
William Lustig’s Maniac Cop should’ve been the cult actioneer to end them all.
Maniac Cop is only a petty misdemeanor to Uncle Sam’s gross felony.
Prince John and his thumb aren’t the only things that suck about Robin Hood.
It’s a damn shame they couldn’t manage to supply a villain with the balls of an Ursula, a Cruella, or a Maleficent.
If only the Colonel had let Elvis play Streisand’s John Norman, it might have been the camp classic that closeted Streisand freaks insist it really is.
Barbra Streisand. Is. A Star Is Born. And two-shots have never been so completely arbitrary.
There’s little doubting that La Commune is a grand summation of Watkins’s sensibilities.
The film is a disjointed, whirling dervish of utopian ideas and devil-may-care indulgence.
It belongs firmly in the good company of the early auteurist “Masters of Horror” period of Stephen King adaptations.
Don’t let the fact that visible breath and frosty misery take priority over exploding heads and fetus-licking snow you.
Robert Altman’s disgruntled comedy only seems a relatively straightforward buddy film.
Ariel didn’t want to be part of your kids’ world. That bitch wants to own your kids’ world.