The Japanese auteur’s latest shows nothing more clearly than its untapped potential.
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.
It’s just not as funny as it deserves to be.
Kiarostami’s close-up, in the end, should not be taken merely as a recording of history.
It putters to a close without ever feasting on the irony and grand opera of a master Massuer’s fall from grace.
Director Dewey Nicks refuses to let Slackers be seen as just another teen movie.
There may not be safety or answers outside the women’s institute, but, at the very least, Domestic Violence suggests there’s a way out.
It negotiates a child’s pain for his dead mother via his relationship with an old woman straight out of Eudora Welty.
Kung Pow must be seen to be believed.
Henry Barrial’s film plays out like a sadistic joke without the punchline.
Teenagers are disgusting, or so director Adam Shankman would have us believe.
Mark Pellington’s latest pop thriller is as kooky and overeager as it is spooky and subtly in love with myth.
Thank God for David Lynch, but thank Buñuel for the revolution.
It’s a shame that Ryan and Leo’s fondness for serial killers never translates into spilt blood.
Watching the film, it’s easy to see why Alexander Dumas’s Edmond Dante is the biggest chump in literary history.
The film is a delicate celebration of life and its many mysteries that earns its tears.
The film is full of good ol’ family values so bland and uncinematic that it could be resold as a very special episode of 7th Heaven.
Joanna Lumley’s presence as outsider-observer is so delicately snippy that it shames the rest of the production.
It may have style, but it’s so reductive that it’s rendered instantly forgettable.
The story is likeable in spite of the mawkish emotional predicaments of his characters.