Jaume Collet-Serra’s deft touches elevate what otherwise feels like another formulaic contemporary Disney blockbuster.
The final product feels like more of an interesting and beautifully filmed anecdote than compelling political and human drama.
The film is an old-fashioned and straightforward tale of brave opposition to the Nazi occupation of France.
The Assassination of Gianni Versace consistently and thoughtfully returns to the notion of identity.
Stephen Gaghan’s Gold finds no treasure of gleaming originality in its crushingly clichéd anti-capitalist parable.
The Girl on the Train arrives on Blu-ray in a serviceable, if unremarkable, packaging from Universal.
Tate Taylor’s The Girl on the Train is a grimly deadpan lecture about messy truths and false perceptions.
The Panamanian-born Roberto Duran’s story has all the makings of a fascinating film, but Hands of Stone isn’t it.
It’s rarely clear where we are or how we got here, but it nonetheless delivers some vertiginous 3D thrills.
Russell proposes that there may be no real barrier between the caustic worldview he wears and the sense of childlike wonder he sells.
It’s sense of complexity is giving us masses of people moved by Simon Bolívar’s words, and gorgeous sweeping vistas of the landscape backed by a stirring orchestra.
A jump scare isn’t just a jump scare in the films of Scott Derrickson, which isn’t to say this wannabe master of horror has entirely perfected the art of sudden dread.
The Liberator is upfront about lensing the world psychologically through Simón Bolívar’s eyes.
The film confidently and forcefully storms onto DVD with an admirable A/V transfer, only hindered by a paltry gathering of extras.
Zero Dark Thirty is nothing if not a forthright, above-board, cards-on-the-table kind of film.
Wrath of the Titans sputters and coughs on the fumes of its own inevitability.
Fittingly enough, he who lives by the balls ends up pinched by the balls.
Carlos is always most revealing when watching the Jackal act and react rather than recite Marxist chestnuts.
If Poetry’s emotions are diffuse, Our Life’s are downright incomprehensible.
Yet another dubious Guevara biopic that sees the man’s ideology as something to be worn and not questioned.