The script’s steady succession of red herrings is more tiresome than terrifying.
For both better and worse, I Love My Dad feels less like a film than an exorcism.
The film excels at capturing the emotional substance of what we think we remember about our pasts.
The film is an unwieldy array of muddled ideas that never gel together into a cohesive whole.
Silas Howard’s film feels like a scenario from a textbook about handling a child’s gender nonconformity.
Jonathan Mostow luxuriates in the pure surface pleasures of the his many taut, formally dynamic action sequences.
Despite its gestures toward nuance, the very broadness of the dichotomies in the film prove to be its undoing.
The sense of a film school student doing movie karaoke with his influences is evident throughout Dreamland.
The film delivers the same misogynistic, faux-modernistic jolts of trashy humor and labored plotting that typify Michael Bay’s work.
For the most part, however, the episode unspools as a dreary, clichéd story about Louie’s first exposure to pot.
Enough can’t be said about how James Gandolfini comes so close to saving Nicole Holofcener’s latest articulation of white suburban anxieties.
Most of the big narrative turns feel both predictable and forced, and at odds with the natural charms of the cast.
The show never really succeeds at being anything other than a fitfully amusing imitation of Curb Your Enthusiasm.
The film is notable for its aggressive miserablism, but also for its stellar photography, which this great transfer dutifully reveres.
Are the Coens jokers who tread on despair, or tragedians with a penchant for death’s-head humor?