Eli Roth’s Thanksgiving is a slasher for today, slickly made, coolly mean, and with a satiric bite.
The film looks better than ever, though the lack of a new 4K transfer from the negative leaves open the possibility of a superior future release.
By the end, The House with a Clock in Its Walls completely loses sight of the trauma and grief that was meant to give the film its emotional core.
It’s difficult to think of a film more out of step with the current culture than Eli Roth’s Death Wish remake.
Travis Zariwny detachedly regards the material as shtick to be waded through with quotation marks.
Eli Roth’s sense of humor abandons him when his hero isn’t about to get down with the get down.
The film is more cognizant of cultural imperialism’s smugness and presumptuousness than its spiritual predecessor, the exploitation classic Cannibal Holocaust.
There’s plenty of gore, but it doesn’t engender any visceral or emotional reactions beyond jaded disgust.
RZA’s deliriously stone-faced dedication lodges the film firmly between a kōan and a limerick.
Could this have been the photo that sparked the tale of svelte murderess? Who leaves nothing but severed limps in her wake?
These shacks have giddily opened their doors to audiences through the years.
The film doesn’t even express, as its title implies, “a fan’s hope,” since there’s nothing that needs to be hoped for.
Lewis may have been a pioneer of the genre but he knows his movies are terrible and holds no illusions about his craft.
The 3D-enhanced death sequences are tailor-made for those who always wanted to take an ax to the MTV Beach House.
Piranha 3D proves a worthy heir to its brazen exploitation-cinema forefathers.
Quentin Tarantino is one of those directors that thoroughly divides people: You either love to hate him, or hate to love him.
It’s no less meticulously engineered than Tarantino’s other pulp fictions, except this one is more linear and—gasp—humane than most.
Sadly, the horror genre gets no respect, and Hostel: Part II is not the type of film to change that.
Few critics appreciate, let alone care to understand, the horror genre, past or present.
Eli Roth’s film functions as a ritual akin to the ceremony performed on Heather Matarazzo’s character, but one with no purpose other than to court easy outrage.