There’s no getting past the fact that the oft-delayed Make Sure They See My Face feels like a compromised work.
Robert Schrock’s Naked Boys Singing! is the biggest waste of dick since Jake Gyllenhaal and Heath Ledger in Brokeback Mountain.
Siouxsie has moved from the dissonant sounds of her band’s debut, The Scream, and into pure, intoxicating pop on her solo debut.
True to its title, My Name Is Alan and I Paint Pictures sees the world through its subject’s childlike eyes.
If Pierce’s unvoiced rage is the heartache of black America, her hope is its spirit.
Director Neten Chokling envisions Milarepa’s vengeance as a spectacle of gaudy digital effects worthy of Xena: Princess Warrior.
As reckless as love itself, the movie has its ups and downs, but you can’t help but be touched by it.
Paul Greengrass’s latest plops on the screen with lots of hi-fi energy but, strangely, very little feeling.
The film profoundly connects a family’s heartache to the tears in a country’s social fabric.
Rescurrecting the Champ is a snooze, but at least it’s an honest one.
If you’re the type who cranes his neck to eye a car wreck, Laura Smiles is a mess that must be seen to be believed.
If the title Tekkonkinkreet suggests a mashup of different sounds, it’s not without reason.
Robin Swicord’s The Jane Austen Book Club is pitched as The First Wives Club for coffeehouse intellectuals.
Drama/Mex is the best film that Alejandro González Iñárritu never made.
Beck’s latest album plays like a subdued collection of greatest hits.
Brian De Palma’s characterizations may not have the subtle tongue-in-cheek wit of Tom Wolfe, but his version of the story is both more comic and angrier for it.
Hey, there’s a reason they call the new DVD the Everything’s Duckie Edition.
Jon Hughes’s frustrated sarcasm branded a generation.
Snake Eyes is about multiple perceptions of one major event, their relationship to each other and to the audience.
His name is Jack T. Colton. What’s the “T” stand for? “Trustworthy”