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.
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