What’s most stirring about Céline Sciamma’s film is the lack of artifice in Héloïse and Marianne’s feelings for one another.
It’s at its best when showing how gangsters undermine their lofty notions of nobility with displays of narcissism.
We’ve compiled the best feature-length adaptations of King’s work, excluding the mostly mediocre TV adaptations.
Subtlety dissipates as Justin Chon’s film grasps for something louder and more obvious.
Throughout, artists intermingle in scenes that have been rendered with an Altman-esque sense of personal panorama.
It isn’t long into the film when the hagiographic soundbites from famous interviewees become the dominant mode.
The film is at its best when its focus remains on Ivins’s fierce commitment to her ideals and willingness to speak her mind.
The film is so clichéd and scattershot as to make Copycat look like Peeping Tom by comparison.
Would that Jacob Estes had kept the particulars of his murder mystery as intricate as the sci-fi of his main characters’ communion.
Milko Lazarov seems driven to record the inner workings of a singular slice of Inuit culture before it goes the way of the reindeer.
The film seems to have cobbled its set pieces together from a series of close-ups edited as if by random selection.
A striking number of the titles that appeared in the festival’s competition slate this year operate in a playful, breezy register.
Hoberman discusses how the art of filmmaking, and the business of moviegoing, influenced, mirrored, and altered Reagan’s presidency.
The film frequently falls back on the stately demeanor of countless other historical biopics and period pieces.
Only in its giddily gory finale does the outrageousness of the film’s violence come close to matching that of its plot.
The film is refreshing for its lack of pearl-clutching, its ambivalence in assessing what it’s like to be a commodity with a nervous system.
The film is inspirational only in the sense that it may inspire an uptick in Amazon searches for running gear.
Gavin Hood wrings suspense out of the parsing of the nuances of evidence and the tapping of mysterious contacts.
It never resolves its commingling of the fanciful and the mundane into a particularly compelling argument about the legacy of trauma.
The film is a curiously anodyne affair that proposes the distinctly unenlightening idea that the medicine against despair is just a little R&R.