Ariel didn’t want to be part of your kids’ world. That bitch wants to own your kids’ world.
With an enviable, well-stocked cast of character thespians and a carefully dilapidated motel set, Eaten Alive is all ingredients, no recipe.
Eaten Alive doesn’t fuck with your head like Hooper’s Texas Chainsaw Massacre films.
It’s a little early to be having a mid-life crisis, isn’t it?
The album is a richly dark masterwork that illustrates that there’s is nothing sexier than emotional nakedness.
Seriously, the last thing I need is to annotate Rydell High’s yearbook.
When Grease gets remade two decades from now, it will be a Target commercial. And we’ll all be fat.
Crazy Itch Radio’s not the Sign O’ The Times that Rooty fans have been waiting for, but it’s a more-than-serviceable Lovesexy.
The film strikes notes—unique in Brian De Palma’s work—of unmitigated existential disappointment.
The Fury is the most crucial movie of all De Palma’s movies.
The film is half-baked and far-fetched without even the benefit of being audacious-unto-tasteless.
The film’s funk of hedonism is only as pungent as a perfume sample in a department store catalogue ad.
The film is a bifurcated recording of what was one of the New York avant-garde theater world’s more controversial productions.
The film is a wicked, feature-length double entendre from a Doublemint era.
Wedding Party is a spunky freshman effort, but Brian De Palma undoubtedly felt more comfortable in the realm of the wryly sophomoric.
It probably would’ve been thoughtful to include a chamois in the package.
Is Mission to Mars an auteurist litmus test for the Y2K generation?
Let’s Scare Jessica to Death spends 90 minutes tapping lightly but incessantly on its heroine’s fragile sanity.
The film turns the Vietnam War into a stylistic, 20th Century Foxy replay of the Hundred Years’ War.
Half Phantom of the Paradise, half Obsession, Carrie is hysterical in every sense of the word.