It lobs a grenade at slasher-movie sadism by making us care about the characters as more than just body-bag fodder.
Arnaud Desplechin tries his hand at a coming-of-age tale with My Golden Days, and does so with equal doses of mature reflection and youthful impetuosity.
Michael Moore toes the line toward shooting himself in the rhetorical foot with his own thuggish persona.
As intelligent, often hilarious, and occasionally insightful as it is, it aslo shows a filmmaker’s style hardening into shtick.
The misguided effect of the film’s animated sequences is to distance the viewer from real-life horrors.
The Transporter is now but a blank slate serving the characters and mayhem surrounding him, a walking metaphor for a franchise that’s run out of gas.
If director Aleksander Bach’s choices are any indication, he cares less about characters and actors than about dubious surface dazzle.
Temperamentally, Guy Ritchie aligns more with the lithe, James Bond-like Solo: detached, above-it-all, eternally cool under pressure.
Director Jorge Michel Grau’s ambitions are stalled by a screenplay that seems to have never made it past a first draft.
The film is consistently, and often dispiritingly, mired in the quaint tradition of the classy costume drama.
Maya Forbes reveals herself as a sunny optimist, remembering the ecstatic highs and never dwelling on the despairing lows.
Rarely has the question “What if this is a dream?” been fraught with such bitterly ironic implications.
It weaves through past and present, memories and reality, analysis and history, like a mercurial mind reminiscing seemingly at random.
Ira Sachs wouldn’t have countenanced the stacked-deck sentimentality that lies at this film’s heart.
The Gerard Johnson film’s blanket cynicism is its most shopworn quality of all.
Russell Brand has picked up a few tactics from Michael Moore.
For all its gestures toward taking a more thoughtful approach toward genre tropes, the film ultimately ends up conforming to them..
Dirty Weekend finds the generally prickly Neil LaBute in a relatively lighthearted mood.
Though Virgin Mountain is the English title, its Icelandic title, Fusí, seems more fitting.
In Transit could be seen as a poetic encapsulation of Albert Maysles’s nonfiction art.