The film feels composed of burnished, often blackly funny, fragments of erratic memory.
The film revives many noir touchstones, but never the throbbing unease that courses through the classics of the genre.
One of the finest, most distinctive Marvel productions yet gets an expectedly sterling home-video release.
The film is committed to the idea that heroism isn’t a burden but an uplifting realization of our best qualities.
Writer-director Shana Feste’s film alternates between cutesy comedy and undercooked emotional drama.
Any potential subtext of Munro Leaf’s children’s book has been bleached out in the marketplace-oriented Ferdinand.
The film is unable to reconcile a desire to ridicule its own artifice with constant attempts to foster genuine empathy and dramatic tension.
I, Tonya’s attempts to implicate viewers is its broken shoelace, too pat and glib to be convincing.
The Nut Job 2’s episodic plot is little more than a clothesline on which to hang manic action sequences.
Vinyl never feels as if it’s truly about the record business, which instead serves as a backdrop for iconic guest characters and mob-movie set pieces.
Compounding the leaden pace are the shoehorned references that connect the film to the continuity of the Marvel universe.
It’s the sustained, full-bodied mania of Melissa McCarthy’s performance that anchors the film’s many winning blind-alley gags.
One’s ability to enjoy the film hangs on a tolerance for the ever-popular on-screen man-child.
The chemistry between Pacino and his cast mates gives this lightly amusing contrivance surprising emotional resonance.
It makes John Huston’s elephantine, synthetically charismatic 1982 adaptation look like a Minnelliesque model of focus and concision.
Jon Favreau’s film comes off as flippant in its view of independent labor as a universally liberating experience for an artist and businessman.
If only we lived in a world where production values counted for everything, Boardwalk Empire would be some kind of masterpiece.
Lost in the music, mustaches, and furniture of the early ‘70s, this docudrama of a porn star’s exploitation isn’t nearly painful enough.
One of Woody Allen’s strongest and most pointed films in over a decade despite mildly falling victim to his recent propensity for clunky narrative development, cynicism, and stereotypical characterizations.
Following its usual method of diagrammatically charting characters’ rises and falls, the third season opens with nearly everyone in flux.