In the film, the power of the movies is an afterthought to more romantic and socially oriented concerns.
The film’s depiction of an era of rigid class divisions and incalculable loss comes through the hazy, soft-focus goggles of nostalgia.
Supernova is so obviously structured that it often seems to be imposing meaning on its characters.
Its emphasis on the achievement of the individual is practically antithetical to the conclusion drawn by Frances Hodgson Burnett.
The most thrilling and haunting details here are actively undermined by the chief technical gimmick of the film.
For all of its slavish devotion to Mary Poppins, the sequel doesn’t even seem to recognize its greatest attribute: its star.
Rupert Everett is interested in offering a phantasmagoria that expresses Oscar Wilde’s bitter, deteriorating psyche.
The Mamma Mia! sequel’s flaws are overridden by infectious moments that, to take a cue from ABBA, you couldn’t escape if you wanted to.
A parody of a parody, the film is so soulless that it makes its predecessor seem like a classic in retrospect.
Sharon Maguire’s Bridget Jones’s Baby is less a film than it is a series of needle-drops.
It makes a convincing argument for viewing Thomas Wolfe’s work as a product of the exuberance of the 1920s.
It’s structured in safe terms, plays for very low stakes, and appeals to no one so much as white, male teenagers with chips on their shoulders.
It’s hard to tell if the film is hampered or helped by the performances of its three stars, because it’s so amateurishly written and directed that their participation beggars belief.
A film of obvious characterizations and even more obvious plot machinations that render its moment-to-moment charms moot.
Atom Egoyan’s hypocritical prestige-movie skittishness is more offensive than ordinary sensationalism.
It fails to ask compelling questions that would merit the relevance of a fictional film about the subject in 2013.
I hate to take the easy road and say that the designers of the poster thought outside of the box, but, hey, if the metaphor fits.
Throughout Dante Ariola’s film, the expressions of the false-identity theme are multitudinous, and about as subtle as the Colin Firth character’s choice for a new last name.
Throughout, Michell and screenwriter Richard Nelson keep you at arm’s length from Franklin D. Roosevelt.
Generally, these shorts do little to advance their own arguments, but then again, they don’t need to.