The film presents its scattershot cop-movie tropes in earnest, as if, like hurricanes, they were natural, unavoidable phenomena.
Throughout, Helen Hunt obsequiously tends to her character’s evolution as a parent through a flagrant indulgence of sitcom-ish scenarios.
It makes John Huston’s elephantine, synthetically charismatic 1982 adaptation look like a Minnelliesque model of focus and concision.
Its characters are creatures of habit, seeking and constantly rebuffing liberation, and the series similarly depends on its tired rituals to survive.
Surprisingly, the first few episodes of season seven indicate a willingness on the show’s part to take some new chances.
Géla Babluani’s redo of his own 2005 film 13 (Tzameti) has been only superficially updated for American audiences.
Each season of Dexter has started slow before building momentum, and this season is no exception.
Colin Strause and Greg Strause’s Skyline has one semi-inspired moment, and an hour and a half of intolerable ones.
Dexter is such a darkly comic and self-aware show that its creators would joke about how far from cutting edge it is.
In lieu of a flurry of left hooks and roundhouse kicks, we stay safely in Stallone’s comfort zone of shoot ‘em ups and shit getting blown up.
It’s tempting to say that the structural sloppiness of the fourth season of Showtime’s Dexter is a deliberate bit of auto-critique.
As far as dumb but entertaining serial dramas go, you could do a lot worse than Dexter.
Dexter, a good drama but an average psychological study, is always pointing out distinctions between right and wrong.
Jailbait seems only interested in expounding upon the familiar horrors of lock-up.
The film is more exciting than expected and yet not nearly as gripping as it could have been.
While films like Chasing Papi claim to represent the Hispanic cultural experience in America, Washington Heights actually delivers on its own promise.