In Antlers, the big bad is never supposed to be as scary as society’s collective wrongdoing.
The film is too blinded by manufactured sentimentality to see the more compelling what-if scenario lying right in front of its eyes.
The film feels like a missed opportunity to interrogate society’s fervent need to make pariahs out of people for their youthful mistakes.
The film circles a thorny premise, which makes it all the more disappointing that it results in a conventional clinch.
Whatever satire of white elite society is intended by The Forgiven has been blunted by monotony.
Belfast embodies cinema’s ability to offer a kind of escapism, but up until its climax it plays like a retreat from reality.
Dune ends up feeling like an extended prologue for what one can only hope will be a sequel that will clarify its parables and paradoxes.
In the end, Edgar Wright isn’t particularly interested in taking aim at all that is dark in the zealotry that shapes a culture.
Pablo Larraín’s film readily conjures a paranoia-suffused atmosphere of fear for what might happen at any moment.
Michael Mohan’s preposterous fable exerts the dark pull of voyeurism itself.
The film intimately immerses us in the psyche of a woman for whom each day is a minefield of uncomfortable interactions.
As an exploration of the misogyny that drove Bundy’s crimes, Amber Sealey’s film mostly falls short of its potential.
Despite the film’s narrow scope, it’s hard to not be impressed by the political and civic engagement of its teen subjects.
The film shrewdly details how a gay forefather’s legacy has paved the way for today’s queer kids to unabashedly embrace their queerness.
In spite of the film’s strikingly lived-in sense of place, the script’s melodramatic storytelling works against that verisimilitude.
Randall Emmett’s directorial debut is virtually indistinguishable from the scores of cheap VOD action thrillers that he’s produced to date.
The film’s fanciful archival montages shrewdly demonstrate the ways in which memory and art seamlessly combine to document reality.
The shadow of Risky Business looms large, and distractingly, over Manuel Crosby and Darren Knapp’s film.
Sweat mostly adheres to a time-honored tale of the pitfalls of fame, despite its ultra-modern context.
Symptomatic of the Marvel-ization of modern action cinema, the film seems to exist mostly as an advertisement for future product.