The series squanders its initial intrigue with its plodding pace, repetitive structure, and cardboard writing.
Throughout, Diane Nyad is defined almost exclusively by the adversity over which she triumphs.
Once things get moving, it’s smooth sailing to the double-shocker of a denouement.
So many grandiose tactics portend a grander revelation than the film’s otherwise low-key three-hander delivers.
In the end, it can’t help but sentimentalize the better angels that supposedly reside in the land of liberty’s flawed human fabric.
It’s an occasionally amusing and insightful beltway satire that’s ultimately undone by its conventional mise-en-scène and predictable plot.
The film is an un-aerodynamic vehicle of uncertain design, packed carelessly with origin storylets and pop-cultural flotsam.
Life Itself revels in the shameless emotional manipulation stemming from the ham-fisted tendencies of its own maker.
The film is content to present Anton Chekhov’s ideas rather than grapple with their provocative and complex subtexts.
Bening and Bell discuss Gloria Grahame and Peter Turner’s relationship.
The film’s derivatively stylish cinematography laboriously hints at un-broached turmoil and passion.
A rare bad performance from Denzel Washington sinks writer-director Dan Gilroy’s follow-up to Nightcrawler.
Warren Beatty’s portrayal of Howard Hughes has the overly polished feel of an anecdote that’s been told too often.
Mike Mills’s 20th Century Women incurs sorrow at the prospect of saying goodbye to its characters.
The chemistry between Pacino and his cast mates gives this lightly amusing contrivance surprising emotional resonance.
Hazanavicius takes on the horrors of war in this remake of Fred Zinnemann’s 1948 film The Search
Arie Posin’s almost offensively “tasteful” dud remains irritatingly on the surface, more alive to the set design than the characters’ motivations.
Shari Springer Berman and Robert Pulcini’s dismal, D-grade sitcom isn’t fit to lick the boots of Whit Stillman’s four films.
Sally Potter packs so much detail and thematic heft into 90-minute films that, given her elliptical and often unemphatic presentation, feel tantalizing but never overstuffed.
Imogene sounds like it was written by somebody who has never heard a single real-world conversation.