The film suggests David Lynch’s masterful mindfuck Inland Empire for the influencer set.
Sangre de Mi Sangre unfortunately lives down to the dubious nature.
For all of its lame distastefulness, Behind the Mask: The Rise of Leslie Vernon is a sadly appropriate reflection of its time.
John Malkovich practically spits glitter as he throws himself into a grating gay impersonation.
Christopher Walken started out as a dancer, and he manages to bring that sense of movement into his performances.
The film recognizes that we are at a precarious point in our human evolution.
Geoffrey Enthoven’s The Only One concerns itself with the trials and tribulations of growing old.
Duck is an inexplicable study of hangdogitis, at once unwatchable and endearingly embarrassed.
Michael Tucker and Petra Epperlein’s film is a less-unbiased and substantial companion piece to their Gunner Palace.
Though based upon a specific true story, Pride most closely resembles virtually every other inspirational Hollywood melodrama.
The fingerprints of multiple hyphenate auteur Ying Liang are all over his video feature The Other Half, and he wants us to know it.
This endearingly hokey low-budget B movie comes with a high nostalgia factor from the Reagan era.
From beginning to end, the film is pandering—which is to say, campaigning for Oscar.
The film is Arrogantly conceived, pretentiously executed, and petulantly protracted.
This jambalaya of pop clutter, more perplexing than humorous in its insane brinkmanship, never stops boggling the mind.
Blessed by Fire is the film equivalent of an adult contemporary song.
American Cannibal’s ostensibly authentic narrative cannily reflects the way in which reality TV manufactures fraudulent “truth.”
As a living, beating heart about a populace living through a time of upheaval and confusion, Ken Loach’s film is mediocre.
With Meanwhile, the effects of Robert Altman’s cinema can now be traced to Argentina.
The film is loaded with one moment of bliss, shock and awe after another as lives cross and crash into each other in the same spirited way the celluloid slows down.
The inner life of Martin Frost reeks of misogyny, and the film that enshrines his egomania makes half-assed aspirations to Goethe.