The festival’s greatest singularity is two-fold: its lack of pretense and judicious curatorial eye.
Big Fish is a cosmic gallery of gothic inventions and magical wish fulfillments.
If The Haunted Mansion is remotely tolerable, that may have to do with Elf screenwriter David Berenbaum.
Shattered Glass speaks simultaneously to our humanity and sense of moral outrage.
The film’s only sense of wonder is the recognition of Vermeer’s paintings coming to life.
Ron Howard’s The Missing announces its (corporate) intentions right from the start.
Penélope Cruz not only chews the scenery, she pisses on it and begins chewing on it again.
The Statement never delves too deeply into the pitch-black heart of its premise.
Cat in the Hat isn’t so much an adaptation of a Dr. Seuss book than it is an improv special for Mike Myers.
The Boys Life series has always been a little about wish fulfillment.
Calendar Girls is perhaps the most blatant attempt yet to exploit the popularity of The Full Monty.
It’s the attempt to half-heartily harken back to the original cartoons that’s ultimately so damning.
It’d be easy to write off Paramount’s Tupac: Resurrection as a cheap publicity stunt.
This ambitious seafaring epic almost holds its rickety hull together thanks to Russell Crowe’s intense, broad-shouldered star power.
Gertrud is so peculiar as to appear almost otherworldly.
Feel-good schmaltz creeps into every nook and cranny of writer-director Richard Curtis’s Love Actually.
Marina de Van’s oft-flashy visuals needlessly reinforce her already obvious fascination with all things surface.
There’s no denying that this overlooked 1940 gem is essentially two films in one.
The film picks up exactly where Matrix Reloaded left off, and it’s considerably rough going for the film’s first half.
With good reason, film theorist Andrew Sarris called the film one of the most compassionate of all time.
End-of-the-road Vegas pictures are a dime a dozen, but this desperate contrivance is pretty low on the totem pole.