The film is too invested in treacly optimism for its character dynamics to feel sketched out beyond their basic narrative function.
Halo looks a lot like well you might expect an adaptation of the game would, but it fails to distinguish itself from similar sci-fi fare.
For a spell, Melina Matsoukas’s film exudes the concision of an old B movie.
Think of Julius Avery’s Overlord as a reminder from a major Hollywood studio that Nazis are really bad.
By partially demonstrating what a fresher superhero movie might look like, it underlines its genre-defined limitations.
For a film about a killing machine who can see at night, it’s ironic that Riddick itself is, both narratively and visually, a dark, muddled mess.
The instinct to beat up on Devil sight unseen is because M. Night Shyamalan’s name is now synonymous with cheap third-act twists.
David Mamet’s macho prose pares down the world to blowjobs, power, and God.
Taylor Hackford’s Ray follows cloying Oscar-season conventions to the note.