Arrow’s release gives viewers the opportunity to experience the original cut of Kelly’s freewheeling satire for the first time.
What could have been a profound study of grief and psychological trauma is diluted with needless structural and stylistic obfuscation.
The film reeks of the extremely idealistic notions of young love that plague many a YA adaptation.
John Carroll Lynch’s Lucky is an impeccably acted yet sentimental film that’s bashful about said sentimentality.
With this gorgeous and obsessive four-disc set, Donnie Darko fanatics may have found their ultimate bible, at last.
Pablo Larraín’s film bluntly hammers home the notion that history is framed by perception rather than reality.
It places more focus on the childish fabulousness of Tom Sawyer than the racial reckoning of Huckleberry Finn.
Riley Stearns’s film obliquely addresses its narrative mysteries through the conversational cracks of two people in enforced proximity.
James Franco’s readiness in approaching famously abstract source material certainly doesn’t translate well into his directorial formalism, or, more appropriately, lack of formalism.
Haters gonna hate, but as Sony’s excellent Blu-ray proves, The Artist keeps on charming through the backlash.
The Artist is scarcely a patch on what Guy Maddin can do on a bad day.
Spectacularly witless, In My Sleep is another depressing reminder of what happens when you give cameras to jocks.
The only laughs elicited by All About Steve are those of incredulity at its blanket ineptitude.
Teen horniness is not a crime but Southland Tales is.
If Donnie Darko was Richard Kelly’s Eraserhead, then maybe Southland Tales is his Dune.
The film is a jumbled account of the short life and photogenic hard times of the first Andy Warhol superstar.
George Hickenlooper’s fascination with the beast of celebrity reaches a gossipmongering low with Factory Girl.
Jericho treads on ground we’ve already covered and should at least know how to handle more originally.
Ridley Scott fans: Imagine for a second what Matchstick Men would have looked like if Robert Zemeckis had directed it.
Ridley Scott’s camera merely exaggerates what an overly mannered but impressive Nicolas Cage evokes just fine on his own.