Throughout, Supergirl draws from at least 10 different long-tapped cinematic wells.
Man in the Chair is more exorcism than resuscitation.
Ultimately less than the sum of its parts, the film is nevertheless an engaging glimpse into a largely ignored period that may still hold many surprises.
Top-quality visuals convey Aymara Indian Evo Morales’ supporters’ energy and their movement’s optimism.
Honeydripper is more hopeful than Sunshine State but possibly more naïve.
O Jerusalem’s purported seriousness might label it as an adult’s film.
The jokes build and resound like a good, honest fright.
Meeting Resistance raises all sorts of ethical questions about its making.
Director David Slade never infuses his tale with any sense of real consequence.
Carmen Castillo’s documentary doesn’t exhibit a clue about how to assemble its material.
The Life of Reilly is the funniest and most poignant documentary of the year.
People aren’t who they seem in Gone Baby Gone, and that goes for its makers as well.
Weirdsville’s pleasures come too little too late.
The close-up is Cassavetes’s shot of choice in his two-hour exploratory critique of the American idle rich.
DarkBlueAlmostBlack is an anemic, schematic, and impersonal meditation on family ties.
At a massive 253 minutes, Peter Bogdanovich’s documentary certainly doesn’t lack for detail.
What ultimately emerges is a schizophrenic survey of the many ways in which Bob Dylan has (possibly) seen himself.
Let us consider Tarantino’s upbringing for a bit.
The film proudly flaunts its maker’s right to make movies as badly as Bart Freundlich, Peyton Reed, and Woody Allen.
By splintering off into six separate points of view, the documentary immediately becomes too remedial and blandly informative.
Robert Schrock’s Naked Boys Singing! is the biggest waste of dick since Jake Gyllenhaal and Heath Ledger in Brokeback Mountain.