The campy Resident Evil: Apocalypse may be brain dead, but it’s nonetheless also heartily, feverishly alive.
It isn’t difficult to sense the hot air emanating from What the Bleep Do We Know?
David R. Ellis’s proficient direction helps sustain a consistently frantic, tense pace.
The Rock’s core fan base may have a problem adding the film to their permanent collection.
Josh Hartnett is far too stolid to convey the frazzled, fanatical desperation required by Paul McGuigan’s soporific romantic mystery.
Twisted is a thriller only a misogynist could love.
It looks great (thanks to Vilmos Zsigmond), but can hardly muster a single laugh.
She speaks Spanish. She can play the piano. She can negotiate an Olympic-sized swimming pool. Is there anything Dakota Fanning can’t do?
Mira Nair’s stately costume drama does little to desecrate Thackeray’s opus.
Part of what makes the film so entertaining is its unabashed employment of unironic melodrama.
Soul Plane isn’t even good if you’re high, but Mo’Nique sure is funny.
Ben Tibber unaffectedly conveys the fear and wariness of a boy whose life has been nothing but a prolonged nightmare.
Vincent Gallo’s indulgent film ultimately feels like one giant act of cinematic self-gratification.
Little Black Book is proof positive that the path to hell is paved with good intentions.
This Hidalgo DVD scores a big zero in the features department, but wait ‘til you take a look at the image and sound quality.
Festival Express only delivers, at its best, a mild contact high.
There’s little to distinguish the film from its dope-loving forefathers aside from its shameless shilling for artery-clogging junk food.
Does Elmore Leonard sell the rights to his novels only after filmmakers agree to use “It’s Your Thing” on the soundtrack?
Martin Scorsese’s interest in would-be supermen struggling to reconcile their warring impulses reemerges in The Aviator.
The film is proof positive that writing a successful action film and directing one are two entirely different beasts.