All the central characters have moments here in which they, for all intents and purposes, might well be dead.
There’s an engaging trashiness to season two of True Detective, but the overall production feels overbearingly self-serious.
Yorgos Lanthimos’s films live and die by their concepts—or gimmicks, depending on your outlook.
Liv Ullmann’s film is no tearjerker, but it makes the stage play’s guessing-game quality on screen without copping to reductivism.
A new element in Look of Silence is the view it offers of those who knew murdered victims or who managed to escape death.
Fantasy is heavily dependent on vision, which Mark Helprin had in spades, but the look of Akiva Goldsman’s fantasy is limp, timid, and occasionally outright awkward.
A tale of memory and redemption that does little to linger in the mind and even less to decry P.L. Travers’s claim that Disney turns everything it touches into schmaltz.
If I had to bet which Oscar contender will score the most nominations without a single win, I’d go for Saving Mr. Banks.
Epic is something close to an animated masterpiece…provided it’s watched on mute.
The action merely meanders when it should be hurtling forward, running in circles when one expects it to head toward a conclusion or some sense of resolution.
This is a rogues gallery that runs the gamut from clingy patient to schizo serviceman.
In places, McDonagh’s follow-up to In Bruges evokes Charlie Kaufmann’s more methodically thought-through structuralist exercises.
The annual flood of see-them-or-be-left-out titles will pummel your poor movie-buff planning like a surging tsunami.