Michael Bay tarnishes the memory of another horror classic with an unnecessary remake.
The film is a Big Chill for children of the early ’90s.
The film was seemingly developed at the David Mamet Institute for Twist-Laden Salesmen Dramas.
September Dawn is the year’s first honest-to-goodness exploitation flick.
In Paris Je T’aime, 18 renowned directors contribute star-studded vignettes about amour, each set in a different Parisian neighborhood.
Crazy Love has a tabloid story to kill for, and a basic nonfiction form to snooze over.
Scott’s next project is a remake of The Warriors. By the time of its release, Walter Hill fans will wish they could fold back time and prevent its making.
Jon Kasdan’s ungainly film is, finally, only grounded in smarmy sensitive-guy fantasy.
At a mere 80 minutes, Vacancy is taut, claustrophobic, and brutally lean.
The most studied Best Picture nominee in ages, The Queen has been impeccably primped to neither offend nor elate no one.
American independent cinema’s dearth of novel ideas is demonstrated once again by Diggers.
Patrice Leconte is mainly drawn to sitcom scenarios, which might have been a reasonable tack to take if his material weren’t so cautious and staid.
Eagle vs. Shark is nothing more and nothing less than a romantic, New Zealand spin on Napoleon Dynamite.
There’s an inspirational story lurking within The Hip Hop Project, but directors Matt Ruskin and Scott K. Rosenberg can’t quite seem to bring it out.
Leonardo Ricagni attempts to craft a whimsical ode to childhood, friendship, and the divine power of words and knowledge with Goodbye Momo.
Sundance homilies and truisms are encased in a meta frame in I’m Reed Fish.
Civic Duty tantalizes with “is he or isn’t he” questions.
Awful title aside, Disturbia’s reworking of Rear Window for the YouTube generation is pretty nifty.
Marcus Nispel doesn’t have John Milius’s aptitude for tapping into the mythical essence of his pulpy primitive-warrior-king material.
Tenzin Chokyi Gyatso and Jampa Kalsang’s lead turns—as arid as the Dharamsala mountainside—regularly muck up the contemplative mood.