The film hardly shies away from less convincing attempts to make the Middle-Eastern titans accessible to Western audiences.
A Man Within persuasively argues that Burroughs’s most dangerous addiction might have been the refusal of love.
Mr. Magoo’s Christmas Carol is both a quirky retelling of a holiday classic and a drinking game waiting to happen.
So far, season two has likeably continued to establish Cleveland as the anti-Peter Griffin.
Let your loved ones know that you care by letting chaos reign…in their Blu-ray player.
When did indie comedy become so anti-populist?
The Magician is Bergman playing dead in all possible senses of the term.
The no-nonsense cataloguing of indigenous faces and oral histories amounts to a compassionate sacrifice of form for naked, grassroots empowerment.
Shake Hands with the Devil’s top-down viewpoint protects us from the sinewy, sickening details while assigning crucial blame.
The Kids Grow Up strays so seldom from the “well, duh”-ness of its titular rule-of-thumb that it ironically feels rather childish.
Like Ugetsu, Kuroneko morphs into an obsessively regretful dialectic that trips into tragedy after lugubrious, otherworldly speculation.
That the album is a failure despite the authentic passion behind it only accentuates its participants’ respective ruts.
Even as a bared-soul, one-man show, Lennon adjusted and perfected himself with clever production techniques.
Evidence of Humanity meticulously and miraculously achieves the half-nervous, half-confident joy of extemporaneous performance.
Nora’s Will commendably dares to view suicide as an agent of familial cohesion.
A bulldozer may have crushed Rachel Corrie, but the unacknowledged weight of white man’s burden flattens her video elegy.
The tempered historicity of the film occasionally descends into facile myth.
Ip Man is an explosive exercise in bare-knuckled myth-biography.
Does growing up always have to necessitate calming down?
Hornby’s storytelling prowess gives Lonely Avenue a structural piquancy that Way to Normal lacked.