Believe it or not, we know exactly what’s going to happen at Sunday’s Golden Globe Awards.
It’s practically blasphemous to discount Meryl Streep as a nominee.
In a year replete with great trash, American Hustle is the crown princess of the bunch.
The film manages to implicitly convey the overdriven, coked-up confusion that many ’70s period pieces make painfully overt.
Like a Brazilian wax for the brain, Zack Snyder’s divisive reboot of the Superman franchise will continue to obliterate your senses in this impressive combo package.
Perhaps the most crucial element of Jonze’s vision is its sympathetic embrace of the volatile beating hearts of its characters.
Her is rich in alternately wry and depressing details about the human condition.
The film stars Joaquin Phoenix as a man who falls in love with an advanced Siri-like operating system.
All its faux-patriotism isn’t played for satire, but instead utilized to align the film with an idyllic, unquestioned vision of goodness.
Anderson’s most arresting and original work to date ultimately reveals itself to be a great thwarted American love story.
Blergh. Weeks ago I dreamed a dream where all the particulars of my presently contentious relationship with Anne Hathaway were manifest.
Boasting enough fine performances to at least fill a 10-wide field, supporting actress is this year’s most riches-packed race.
The film’s pictorial tone is one of asphalt-crunching, dawn-breaking, icicle-defrosting meditativeness.
Paramount offers a bold, beautiful A/V transfer Spielberg’s magnificently paced film.
The film is a precious banality best suited for 1950s television.
Time will tell if the Academy’s newest rule adjustment will throw off the mojo of latecomers like Les Misérables.
The Master is Anderson with the edges sanded off, the best bits shorn down to nubs.
A veritable romper-room presentation of this lovable (or, for some, insistently love-craving), reflexive musical comedy.
It works best as a sweet valentine to the late 20th century’s most beloved vaudeville gang’s staying power.
And so it is that Oscar bloggers, seeking to itch the scratch Leo’s blatant assertion that campaigning, not prognosticating, is what wins Oscars, have collectively shifted the balance of power back to the plucky 14-year-old girl who tore through every scene (every. scene.)