Vice is as noisy as the media landscape that writer-director Adam McKay holds in contempt.
Three years after he hit paydirt and a bonanza of critical acclaim for The Big Short, Adam McKay is back with Vice.
Sharp Objects ultimately testifies to the triumph of survival, no matter how ugly or desperate a form it takes.
When its tone slides firmly back into the murk, it’s hard not to see DC’s notion of heroism as borderline nihilistic.
Villeneuve’s moving yet disappointingly cautious mind-bender is accorded a robustly beautiful transfer.
The film gets close to a double-barreled satirical thriller commenting on the historic rift between city and country.
Its searching images counterpoint the hyper-articulate methodology of its characters’ sense of uncertainty.
With Arrival, director Denis Villeneuve communicates the wonder of a Steven Spielberg alien movie within a decidedly hard sci-fi milieu.
The film’s story threads are of a tonal piece, all about striking poses as opposed to exploring humanity.
The film is simultaneously exhilarating, gorgeous, and tedious, operating as a weird fusion of auteur project and craven franchise start-up.
An origin story, apologia, and harbinger of a second expanded universe of overpopulated action bonanzas.
Pressure mounts on all sides to declare Tim Burton’s sweet and understated Big Eyes either a return to form or a turned corner.
It doesn’t offer enough of Burton’s eccentricity to register as anything other than what one character derides as “that representational jazz.”
Garrett Hedlund’s performance throbs with an anguish that’s far more honest than the sentimental euthanasia subplot at the center of the film.
It’s still no Drag Race, but the contest for costume design just got a little bit more interesting over the weekend.
If there’s anything with even the slightest ability to nudge Cate Blanchett’s path to Oscar victory off course, it’s the seemingly endless Farrowgate scandal.
In a year replete with great trash, American Hustle is the crown princess of the bunch.
It manages to implicitly convey the overdriven, coked-up confusion that many ‘70s period pieces make painfully overt.