Woke Disney, trying to navigate a tricky representational path, steps all over itself throughout.
The prospect of true danger imbues Westworld with a newfound sense of urgency in season two.
There’s no reprieve from the dour tone of Carlos and Jason Sanchez’s film.
Westworld isn’t some far-flung future entertainment, but a prescient commentary on our present.
Essentially a post-apocalyptic telenovela, it sanitizes the concept of sisterhood, and even womanhood.
As juvenile and frivolous a wish-fulfillment fantasy as one might expect from the visionary behind the Princess Leia hogtied to Jabba the Hut.
An egregious entry into the pantheon of films about white Americans traveling to exotic lands in search of identity and soul-searching adventure.
Kat Coiro’s film takes comedy of discomfort to new levels of cringe-worthiness.
This is a decent transfer of a lovingly detail-oriented period melodrama, from one of its finest contemporary practitioners.
Haynes’s Mildred Pierce finally seems like the most elaborately produced critical close reading of a novel of all time.
Annihilation and resurrection are the twin axes upon which The Wrestler turns.