The film is held together by the intensity of its haunted-looking cast and the dour atmosphere.
Though there are no live torsos pulverized to mush in the film proper, there’s an unmistakable misogynistic bent.
One is almost tempted to entertain De Palma detractors’ arguments that his exploitation of Hitchcock tropes is nothing but a dead end.
The Interpreter wants nothing more than to be tasteful.
The film allows Ken Lay, Jeffrey Skilling, Andrew Fastow, and the rest of Enron’s upper management weasels to hang themselves with their own words.
Throughout, the filmmakers remain as lovestruck by the story as its characters are with each other.
This modernized Amityville Horror deserves little more than condemnation.
The film is a surprisingly astringent turn for a director who more often presented himself as the rah-rah patriot of American filmmaking.
Susanne Bier’s follow-up to Open Hearts is wonderfully acted but predictably plotted by Anders Thomas Jensen.
This amusingly introspective family film, despite its self-analytical conceit, never devolves into cloying narcissism.
Jim Van Bebber’s documentary recognizes the darkest parts of our selves.
Where was Radley Metzger when you needed him?
The colossal failure of A Hole in My Heart is not entirely without precedent.
The film is a lunatic sci-fi thriller that only loses its nerve somewhere close to the end.
Yvan Attal’s film never satisfactorily balances the funny with the sad.
A mainstream J-horror flick that dutifully regurgitates the apparitions, aesthetic, and themes of its genre predecessors.
Any fondness the filmmakers have for Africa’s natural beauty is sabotaged by their infatuation with colorful “foreignness.”
True to the spirit of its predecessor, State Property 2’s daisy wheel of violence represents a reckless glorification of thug life.
It’s awkward and atrocious in equal measure, though still possessing a somewhat admirable earnestness and sincerity.
You could say that mixing for a crowd of people is a hedonistic act of human tranceport, something this fictional biopic doesn’t quite grasp
The more elegant Bobby and Peter Farrelly’s films have become, the less money they’ve managed to rake in at the box office.