It botches itself out of its own epic ambitions, an aesthetic slickness that seems to contradict, if not betray, its subject matter, and a maddeningly subdued critical spirit.
Like your buzzworthy British stars and venerable greats in the same place?
Warner Home Vidoe does good by Cloud Atlas’s technical skill.
With all due respect to the gentlemen in contention, this year’s likely Supporting Actor crop has shaped up to be a snooze.
Was it fate that John Hurt provided the narration for Ben Whishaw’s 2006 breakout, Perfume?
At this stage, the alternately thrilling and unwieldy three-hour epic is the season’s closest thing to a wild card.
Cloud Atlas is a rare film that’s greater than the sum of its often innocuous parts.
Julie Taymor’s film isn’t as disastrous as it could have been, though it does fundamentally fail Shakespeare’s play.
Just about everyone plays second fiddle to the costumes and set design that are Taymor’s trademark.
Next Fall isn’t about “old” times per se, but its content seems firmly rooted in the seriocomic patterns of seasoned old pros.
Jane Campion’s artistry recalls the wonky, unconventional, and dreamlike beauty of Keats’s verses but also the meticulous stitching of a hem.
This new Brideshead Revisited adaptation takes a step in the right direction.
What ultimately emerges is a schizophrenic survey of the many ways in which Bob Dylan has (possibly) seen himself.
This expertly executed but hollow exercise in imaginative biography reveals next to nothing about Bob Dylan.
The film scarcely inspires awe, but the image and sound transfer do.
Tom Tykwer’s film is a that rarity of rarities: a genuinely deviant work of art.
Tom Tykwer’s Perfume stinks.