George Armitage’s captivatingly eccentric neo-noir is assisted by three magnetic leads and a healthy dose of black comedy.
If nothing else, Peacock’s Dr. Death has been smartly calibrated for its intended audience.
The film revives many noir touchstones, but never the throbbing unease that courses through the classics of the genre.
The story of DeLorean’s life suggests Citizen Kane set in the world of cars.
The film packs as many tortured subplots and pre-chewed sociological insights as can possibly fit into a two-hour runtime.
Emphasizing its beautiful imperfections, Twilight Time restores Talk Radio without compromising its sleazy and earnest vitality.
The film receives one of the best blockbuster home-video releases of the year—and just in time for the holiday season.
Fallout’s action scenes are cleanly composed and easy to follow, and so abundant as to become monotonous.
Its scattershot structure gets at the truth of pop culture as an ineffable chimera that defines much of the world.
It’s a cruel irony that Blind, like so many films about ostensibly great writers, is so unimaginatively written.
The film leaves the lasting impression of a story that takes place in its own elitist and hermetically sealed world.
Every Republican regime gets the ludicrous devious-baby saga it deserves.
Paramount rolls out the formal red carpet for Rogue Nation, a glamorous spy fantasy with shards of playful wit and meta derring-do.
The tacky and loose means by which the platitudinous screenplay dances around what ails the football players is just one cog in a whirligig of pat representations.
It can’t resist winking at how this franchise manages to defy the limits of both human endurance and its superstar’s rickety public status.
The film relies on a bevy of spectacularly funny clips and a plethora of talking heads, most falling back on plaudits rather than sage insights.
After a while, the film’s sing-a-song-for-the-world vibe, so buoyantly optimistic at first, becomes grating and smug.
Moore and Stewart’s consideration of familial friction acerbated by disease nearly saves the film from its banal Lifetime-movie execution.
Kino presents Jonathan Demme’s dark, irreverent romantic comedy with an admirable A/V transfer, but skimps completely on the extras.
Chiemi Karasawa’s documentary is remarkable for its candor, but it’s a brutal honesty that Elaine Stritch herself gladly offers.