There’s an enigmatic quality to the role of Nolan in the current filmmaking landscape.
Dario Argento’s fascination with the subconscious reaches a ridiculous low here.
Michael Rymer’s The Queen of the Damned is a relatively lifeless, abridged version of the second and third tomes of Anne Rice’s The Vampire Chronicles.
The film is a half-assed amalgam of Sixth Sense boos and Mothman Prophecies suggestiveness.
The film’s beautiful, simple finale suggests second weddings will open doors to second lives.
Pesache’ke Burstein remains a rather elusive figure though something fascinatingly akin to a product of myth thanks to Arnon Goldfinger’s bittersweet use of archival footage.
To quote Brian Cox’s chief highway patrolmen, Super Troopers is entirely too “antsy in the pantsy.”
Crush is endearing enough to remind us that love can indeed exist beyond ecstasy and gonorrhea.
Without a sense of humor or fondness for camp, Crossroads, in the end, suggests a Britney ego trip.
You know the deal: The spoils go to the studio that makes the biggest dent in the Academy member’s consciousness.
Director Ramin Serry does wonders with evocative archival footage and the evolving emotional intensity between Maryam and her mother.
It’s fascinating because, according to the director, we are a culture that strives on myth.
No, there was no need to return to Never Land.
Think of John Q. as Hollywood’s one-note answer to Jean Valjean.
When Henry Bean’s camera stays on Ryan Gosling and strays from the reparative therapy narrative, The Believer soars.
Typical of Hollywood terrorist schlock, there are equal measures of spurious, paperback discourse and unique torture mechanisms.
Todd Haynes’s enviro-disease masterpiece Safe might just be the most terrifying film of the last decade.
Here, the Holocaust is a bleeding-heart’s stage for lynching trials, spelling bees, and ironic twists of fate.
John McTiernan lessens the stakes just as he expects his audience to take Rollerball as a global monster that turns sex and blood into rating’s fireworks.
It’s a sentimental journey that is, nonetheless, always ready to remind the spectator that there is no trespassing.
It’s like staring at Arliss Howard’s penis for two hours.