Like Nine, and like Robert Altman’s Ready to Wear, this dud coasts entirely on the reputations of its participants.
Whatever Works is an infinitely savvier movie than it’s receiving credit for in the mainstream press.
One thing that Michelle Pfeiffer can’t be blamed for are the sins that the camera and the make-up artist perpetrate.
The shortcomings of the material appear quite clearly, the haze of nostalgia notwithstanding.
Outrage has more to tell us about the screwed-up priorities of closeted gay careerists than even Angels in America.
Throughout Erick Zonca’s Julia, it’s as if criminal pathology were a scale of musical notes and Julia their virtuosic interpreter.
The Soloist is a crude fiasco that trivializes the very values it allegedly enshrines.
Only minutes in, Stephen Kijak establishes the latter-day Walker’s celebrated reclusiveness.
Jiří Menzel’s return to the cinema after 15 years of directing theater drags both of my pet peeves to the forefront, and then some.
There are no mysteries in Rawson Marshall Thurber’s The Mysteries of Pittsburgh
Would it be an exaggeration to call Bliss the most significant work to emerge from Turkey in the past decade?
What I love about Tanaz Eshaghian’s filmmaking is how she stands completely out of the way.
Castle, his actors, their stunt doubles, his camera crew, and the editor Rodrigo Balart make it all seem… effortless.
Watching Abraham, I kept thinking that he’s ripe for rediscovery and reinvention as a comedian.
It all begins in earnest tonight, the official opening of the 34th Seattle International Film Festival.
Armed with a life-affirming mocha breve from Caffé Zingaro, I make my way to the subterranean blue battleship known as SIFF Cinema.
Brian Kellow is nicely attuned to the soft/tough dichotomy in Merman. Here was a woman capable of sympathizing with her friend Judy Garland’s illness, yet blind to her own daughter’s needs.
There are, in this 158-minute film, a few effects, mainly photographic, that go right.
Sean Penn shovels phoniness on top of phoniness in one poorly staged scene after another.
At age 63, McDowell is one of the few living links to a host of great British actors who are now gone.