Big Fan often feels stock, with its main character just the latest in a long line of delusional, volatile do-nothings.
X Games 3D: The Movie does little more than offer stunning three-dimensional views of the titular annual competition.
Renée Zellweger makes a concerted effort portraying Ann as charming and sympathetic even as the narrative fails to justify either quality.
Shot with CW-level aptitude and inclined to end scenes on awkward comedic or dramatic beats, Post Grad haphazardly synthesizes moments of levity with gravity.
Bobcat Goldthwait’s World’s Greatest Dad clumsily straddles the line between comedy and drama.
A dizzying, camptastic explosion of pulp-realist aesthetics and performance, Julia wins Tilda Swinton another Oscar in my wildest dreams.
Neill Blomkamp’s sci-fi apartheid allegory is defined less by uniquely novel ideas than the shrewd synthesis of classic genre predecessors.
To swoon over Rachel McAdams or Eric Bana is easy, but doing so requires willful blindness to the sloppy nonsensicality of the film’s love story.
The film is geared around an easily foreseeable twist and concludes with a surprise that would have better served as the premise.
Not Quite Hollywood may be shallow, but that shallowness is in tune with its subject.
Senior citizens may be old, but they can do anything that you and I can do.
Roy Andersson’s You, the Living is a masterpiece of droll misery.
G-Force revolves around a nefarious plot known as “Clusterstorm,” though it’s a less PG-rated type of cluster that best describes this guinea pigs-as-spies adventure.
The suspense generated from Esther’s early lunatic behavior is of a mild, amusing variety.
At least John Hindman manages to keep his game performers from completely overdoing it.
Director Geoffrey Smith presents issues of morality and mercy in all their heartrending complexity.
The film never manages to generate the dramatic momentum necessary to create requisite suspense or a sense of import.
The Way We Get By’s empathetic reserve is only sullied by occasional lapses into cross-cutting and musical italicizing.
Shot to shot, Blood: The Last Vampire is borderline incomprehensible.
Larry Charles’s Brüno is like Milk, but with a talking penis.