A tangle of violent, symbolic gestures that regards economic exploitation with fetishistic, impossibly overdetermined abandon.
The film sacrifices emotional specificity to often-purple marriages of sight and sound.
Get your motors running. Death moves at 24 frames per second.
Under the mercurial surface lies a sorrowful heart.
Holy moly, what a setup!
Self-critique or self-indulgence, Holy Motors isn’t afraid to attempt everything under the sun.
borderline-mindboggling extent, Girl in Progress actively discourages thought.
What emerges most saliently from Mintzer’s interviews is Gray’s commitment to the idea of problem solution in creating his style.
This is the type of project in which movie stars indulge their oh-so-serious side via facile stripped-down character drama.
The Other Guys isn’t simply a straight Cop Out-style parody.
Nicolas Cage’s performance is some kind of tour de force.
It shares with the Abel Ferrara film a bottomless compassion for its crazies.
Samuel L. Jackson has hit a rock bottom here that’s comparable only to Joan Crawford’s appearance in Trog.
George Cukor would have made us side with Eva Mendes and exposed Meg Ryan’s blather for what it is: over-privileged white noise.
Ridley Scott and Steve Zaillian seem determined to snuff out bright patches before they can catch fire.
James Gray dramatizes the demoralizing sort of physical and psychic helplessness that was one of Hitchcock’s lifelong themes.
The film mixes screwy humor, cheesily earnest romance, and anti-hero worship by way of the shaggy-dog tale of its titular slacker-loser.
We can only curse the heavens for so long.
Comic book adaptations of late are feeling less and less like feature films and more like depictions of their life-sized action figure counterparts.
The only recompense Mark Steven Johnson deserves for this latest schlocky comic-book translation is having his DGA card set on fire.