The fun but more predictable Fantastic Beasts: The Crimes of Grindelwald moves the new series forward, but only incrementally.
Throughout Dan Gilroy’s film, a promising character study is smothered beneath lazy genre machinations.
How is it that a film so beholden to dull, unnecessary exposition can be so eager to avoid explaining itself?
The only saving grace of the film’s mostly recycled horrors is how they deepen Michael Fassbender’s android David.
The film exists resolutely outside of salience and doggedly within the comfort of escapism.
Robert Budreau strip-mines the life of an amazing musician for the purpose of mounting yet another comeback story.
Selma paradoxically presents nonviolent civil rights protest as something akin to a military campaign.
What will make it essential for future generations isn’t mere flashpoint topicality, but the way it aligns an old struggle with a current one.
The film may triple-underline its governing theme, but the rage and lucidity of its ideas resonate.
After immersing oneself in Zero Hour’s flimsy mythology, it’s hard not to believe that a series this bad must be part of some greater conspiracy.
Alex Cross comes to theaters with the distinct timbre of a merger rather than a singular entertainment.
Whitney Houston’s death is just about the only thing that gives Sparkle any real, albeit unintentional, life.